


A Natural Disaster

by MintChocolate5



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Darcy Lewis, Babbling Bucky, Banter, Bucky Barnes-centric, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Emotions, F/M, Hot Mess Bucky, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly T-rated but M for some later chapters, Pining, Sexuality Crisis, Shrunkyclunks, Slow Burn, lawyer bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintChocolate5/pseuds/MintChocolate5
Summary: Bucky Barnes: millennial, hot mess ("If you subtract the hot and triple the mess," his best friend Darcy chimes from somewhere without knowing why), lover of animals, social justice warrior, complete dominator at board games, and intense farmer market connoisseur. Or so reads his okcupid profile.He's just a man living his best life in Washington DC, fighting for the underdog, and making terrible decisions with his bffl.Then his (rather average) world collides with an Extremely Terribly Very Gorgeous Man.





	1. Mess

**Author's Note:**

> I love me some modern day Bucky meets Cap America. Because sometimes I don't want all the angst. A romcom.

Bucky wakes up hungover.

 

He immediately regrets everything, but unfortunately does not have the pleasure to lay in bed and linger in his pain. No, the alarm clock is incessantly buzzing, telling him to get his ass out of bed and to work. The very early hour does nothing but remind him that he has barely squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“Behh,” a voice moans from across the room. A dark head of hair obscures the face of his best friend, who was sleeping with only a blanket and pillow on the floor of his studio apartment. He must have been flailing in his sleep again, because usually she just slips in beside him. “Why did you do this to me?”

 

“I didn’t do anything you didn’t want,” he says with all the suaveness of a headless chicken. He tries not to puke.

 

Darcy aims blindly, lands a light punch around his ear. “Your. Fault. I think I might die.”

 

He snuggles deeper into bed, pulling the covers over his head and turning away from the menace. So, perhaps it was slightly his fault. Not that he will admit guilt to Darcy, of all people. Who will never let him live it down.

 

“You have agency,” he says, muffled from the blankets. “Right to vote. Right to own land. Right to consent. So many rights, D.”

 

“Is that all law school taught you?” she mumbles grumpily. “Women have rights. Geez golly, how progressive! I still blame you for this hangover. No, it’s not even a hangover yet because I am still drunk! One more drink, he says. We should do shots, he says. I am the innocent lamb in the woods at mercy of your alcoholic slaughter.” She snags the blankets, stealing his cocoon. “Lucky for me, I don’t have to work. Have fun, loser.”

 

“Hate you,” he rolls, literally, out of bed, on to the floor, and crawls to the bathroom.

 

Darcy’s laughter is like tiny nails shooting him in the back of the head as he goes.

 

...  
...  
...

 

The day does not immediately get much better.

 

Summers in DC are stifling at the best of times. The humidity hits hard, the temperature can hover in the 90s, and even when the sun isn’t beating into a hungover man’s head, the mugginess sits uncomfortably, cloying. Despite this, Bucky loves DC. The city is clean—impressively so, a contrast to the city streets he grew up—and while every city has a stench, this one does not make your eyes water. He also loves the energy. The city is in constant flux, changing, shaping, creating the laws and policy of the future.

 

He walks to work, which takes him past the edge of the National Mall, skirting the Supreme Court. The building is beautiful. Neoclassical style, made of marble and lined with sculptures, and boasting an interior is that, surprisingly, small but regal. He had seen the inside a few times now, having taken the official tour twice and nipped over to listen to oral arguments a handful more.

 

The western front of the building bears the motto “Equal Justice Under Law.” Those words, carved into the highest court in the nation, never fail to send a shiver down his spine. He could sit there for hours and marvel in simply feeling the importance of where he is.

 

Today, he has little time to stand and stare. Walking is a struggle, mostly due to the pounding headache pulsing between his temples and the steadily rising nausea. The fresh air does a little to ease his pain. But indisputably his tolerance for alcohol has decreased. He no longer carries the ability to drink all night, pop up the next day unscathed, and be productive. He mourns the loss.

 

His office is closer to the White House than Supreme Court, which sits off center of the Mall, more to the west than east. While it would be faster to route along the parallel streets, he wouldn’t get the same ambiance. He does not vary the routine now, and makes his way past the Capitol Reflecting Pool.

 

His breathing is labored, his vision wobbly. That last shot of whisky really screwed him, and even the mere thought of drinking is enough to send terrible pangs of nausea shooting to the surface.

 

Bucky staggers, folding over in half in what his yoga teacher would commend as a good swan dive.

 

He is far from alone, despite the early hour. A few people jogging ignore him, and other early morning tourists amble along without a spare glance. Those dressed in suits don’t turn away from their phones.

 

He closes his eyes, focuses on his breath, and tries to push down the consequences of his poor life decisions.

 

“Are you okay?” a deep voice asks, apparently not getting the memo that all the others had about ignoring the pathetic figure near the pool.

 

Bucky grunts an affirmative, but the sound is more a groan. He tries again. “Yes, this is my own fault. No worries, man.”

 

He expects the man to leave then, good deed of the day accomplished.

 

Because his eyes are closed, he does not see what the stranger does until he feels a water bottle being thrust into his hands. “Here, drink. I promise I don’t have any diseases.”

 

It is the last thing Bucky is worried about, and he gratefully accepts the bottle and chugs water. Dehydrated, he realizes, like a noob.

 

He takes another deep breath and finally feels good enough to open his eyes.

 

The sight that greets him makes his hands clammy and pulse race for a different reason than alcohol. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—perhaps some older man who took pity—but it definitely was not the extremely, terribly, very, and oh my god all the adverbs were needed here, because he thinks the most perfectly formed man stands before him and he does not have adequate words.

 

“Um,” he says eloquently, all three years of law school, and four of undergrad majoring in English, shining through.

 

The Extremely Terribly Very Gorgeous Man smiles with the whitest teeth Bucky has ever seen outside a Crest commercial. “Better now?” he asks politely. The man has cornflower blue eyes, light wheat colored hair, and the berth of a football player. Model, perhaps. But no, he is probably too broad for that. He is dressed in running clothes, but must have just started because he is sweat-free.

 

“Yes,” is all he can respond with before his manners catch up and he adds a touch belated, “thank you!”

 

The man actually blushes.

 

Bucky cannot. even.

 

As Darcy would say: sooooo cute!

 

“It’s no trouble,” the gorgeous man says, looking more abashed by the second. He lifts his hand to rub at his neck, causing the muscles in his arm to tighten and oh my god, Bucky still cannot even believe this is happening to him.

 

Unfortunately, Bucky is a natural born talker, particularly when nervous or uncomfortable, and so babble begins to spill out before he can end the interaction with any grace or dignity. “I am seriously such a moron! I don’t drink that much anymore, so goodbye tolerance I built up in school, but last night I wanted to celebrate this promotion and went a little overboard…so yeah, well, here I am. You probably just saved me from puking into the Reflection pool, which is probably at least some kind of misdemeanor, and definitely an affront to justice.”

 

What the hell! Abort, Bucky, abort!

 

But it just keeps going: “I mean, perhaps this is a rite of passage when you live in DC—walking along the National Mall hungover—but I would prefer not to disgrace myself in front of the Supreme Court, ya know? But anyway, thanks, man, I really appreciate you stopping and having mercy on my poor soul.”

 

He finally manages to shut his mortifying trap. The gorgeous man looks startled by the torrential downpour of words. Bucky wouldn’t blame him if he just started running, with nary a wave.

 

Instead, he grins. Which makes Bucky nearly take another swan dive. The guy needs to moderate the power of his good looks. He could overcome a crowd with merely a smile.

 

“I’m glad I could be of assistance,” he says with actual freaking sincerity.

 

Bucky dies on the inside.

 

“Well,” the man says awkwardly when Bucky just stares while his insides are becoming mush piles, “I’m going to get back to running.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky responds breathlessly, like he was the one who just ran a mile. “You run good.”

 

What?!!!

 

“I mean,” he corrects quickly, “you have a good run.”

 

The man chuckles, because Bucky is clearly a riot with his inability to speak properly and obvious hot mess comportment. “Thanks. Keep the bottle,” he says, turning and speeding off with a friendly wave.

 

That’s when Bucky realizes that he was grasping the bottle to his chest like a damned fool.

 

“God has no mercy,” he dramatically announces to the rather empty area. He turns to locate the super hot dude, to get one last visual of the man’s likely-to-be delicious derriere, but he sees not an iota of the pretty man. Wow, hot dude is fast.

 

Forcing his legs to carry him onward to work, he fumbles in his pocket to remove his phone. He goes immediately to his #1 speed dial and hits FaceTime.

 

…and waits…

 

And re-dials…

 

Tries again…

 

Finally, when he is almost to work, Darcy’s irritated face appears on his screen.

 

“This better be about life, death, or sex,” she threatens.

 

“Oh my god, Darce, you will not believe the hunk of man flesh I just met!” Bucky gushes.

 

“Not life or death. Did you have sex with him?” she demands, her head barely visible from where she has taken his cocoon.

 

His brows furrow. “No, of course not. He gave me his water bottle when I was literally dying from our bad decisions last night.”

 

“ _Your_ bad decision,” she yells. And hangs up.

 

Rude.

 

Bucky is not to be deterred by her attitude and texts her the rest of the details while entering his building and making his way straight to his office. He manages to avoid his boss, brush up his appearance in the bathroom, slip on a spare suit jacket he has in the office for just this occasion, and be working on a writ within twenty minutes of arrival.

 

He is _good_.


	2. Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courtroom drama, coffee, and bad table manners finish up a long day.

This is not good. This is bad, so bad.

 

“I should hold you in contempt!” the judge sneers when Bucky continues to argue against his client being hauled away to jail, despite the judge shouting that Bucky needed to step away from the podium; the bailiffs hover close by for the final order. The courtroom is silent, staring at the unfolding scene.

 

“Your honor,” Bucky tries again, huddled protectively in front of his client and aiming for a more subservient tone than the confrontational one he’d used when things had gone downhill. “While Mr. Johnson was late this morning for his arraignment, he brought a doctor’s note showing his child was sick during the night and was only discharged an hour ago. He immediately rushed here. This is his first arrest and criminal charge. The allegations are minor—non-violent, and the police officer didn’t even arrest him for the violation, simply issued a citation. He is from DC, has family ties to the community. He is not a flight risk nor a danger to anyone.”

 

When the judge doesn’t seemed inclined to scream for Bucky’s arrest for not listening to the earlier directives, Bucky hastily goes on, “We are asking that you do not remand him and that you recall the earlier issued bench warrant—he is _sincerely_ apologetic for his tardiness, and had circumstances not conspired against him, would have been here in a timely manner. I submit.” Bucky has to resist the urge to glare at the judge for even thinking of remanding someone to custody in this situation. It is simply bad luck that the regular misdemeanor judge was on vacation and the substitute is a crotchety old white man plainly named Bob White.

 

Judge White is _literally_ the worst. Several attorneys in the public defender office had made attempts, over the years, to oust the unjust and cruel man. Nothing had worked, the judicial department simply moved Judge White around until he retired, at which point an enormous sigh of relief went through the legal profession. Unfortunately, the older man found retirement boring, and subsequently fills-in when the regular judges go on vacation. Which is quite often.

 

Mr. Johnson was Bucky’s last client for the morning court session and had shown up right before the lunch break. Bucky can feel him shaking, residual terror from the thought of getting arrested.

 

His argument done, Bucky prays that the prosecutor agrees to release Mr. Johnson. He is holding his breath...

 

“We submit on Mr. Barnes argument, your honor, provided he gives us documentation of the ER visit,” the prosecutor says evenly, and thank god for small favors. She is one of the nicer ones, fairly new, not yet jaded, and not entirely out to jail poor black men. 

 

Judge White glares fiercely at Bucky and his client, like they personally took his puppy, kicked that puppy, and then skinned the puppy for funsies. Oh, that was too much puppy violence, and Bucky regrets it all.

 

Please, please, _please,_ he thinks, do not take this poor guy with a sick child into custody.

 

“Fine,” the judge clips out, grumbling under his breath, his face scrunched into more wrinkles than usual. “This is your last chance, Mr. Johnson. If you mess up again, I’m sending you straight to the slammer.”

 

The _slammer_? That is so classic Judge White that Bucky has to actually bite his lip to keep from laughing in relieved hysteria.

 

“Yes, your honor,” Mr. Johnson says quietly, his eyes watering. He’d been so stressed and tired looking when he had frantically burst into the courtroom twenty minutes ago. He is a little younger than Bucky, has a daughter to support, and works two jobs to make ends meet.

 

The irony of the drama that almost got Bucky hit with a contempt charge and his client remanded into custody? The man is charged with the theft of a twenty-two dollar pair of sunglasses.

 

The charges themselves are bullshit, Bucky could tell from the police report real. The real crime Mr. Johnson had committed is walking around a store while being a black man. He had been trying on sunglasses, decided to buy a pair, but kept browsing. He had wandered too close to the exit points, and had then been stopped and detained by store security.

 

Bucky hates cases like that. Hates seeing the very obvious and prevalent effects of racism still alive and well in America. That anger is channeled into focus.

 

“Thank you, your honor,” he says, hoping the insincerity of the gratitude is buried deep, “how about we set a pretrial conference in three weeks?” By that time, he hopes to have written and won a motion to dismiss for failure to state a charge upon which the state can prosecute.

 

Before the judge can weigh in, the prosecutor says, “That is fine with us. How about the 7th of next month?”

 

Bucky turns to his client. “Can you make that date?”

 

Mr. Johnson nods nervously.

 

“Yes,” he says to the court.

 

The process goes smoothly from there, the clerk providing Mr. Johnson with a reminder slip of his next court date, and the court recessing for lunch.

 

Bucky goes outside with Mr. Johnson where they speak about what will happen next, Mr. Johnson says thank you a lot, and they agree to meet in Bucky’s office next week for a longer debrief.

 

Once they part ways, Bucky sags on a bench outside the court, feeling exhausted all over again. How was it that only a few hours ago he was basking in the delight of having met a beautiful man who gave him a water bottle? And now he was once again a beaten down husk of a person, battered from the callous disregard of human dignity that surrounded him.

 

He loved his job as a public defender, he really did. He met and worked with the best people the city had to offer. He fought against serious issues, told people’s stories that didn’t normally get told. But wow, he wished that everyday wasn’t a war.

 

Drama is the usual. His job is essentially to put out one urgent fire after another. As a public defender, he alone is the force standing in the way of the entire government trying to put an individual in a metal cage, or so he imagines. He is motivated by the thought of helping one person, being the voice for the oppressed and disenfranchised.

 

That is what he thinks during the good days.

 

The bad ones, he darkly reflects, he is just another cog in the system, actually aiding the institution as it slams along, obliterating all the poor and people of color in its path. He maintains the status quo, not having much of an opportunity to challenge it.

 

Today, his thoughts do not stray in either extreme direction. He is tired, and darts expertly to the nearest coffee shop.

 

For every shot of alcohol he did last night, he proportionately gets the same amount in espresso form. A venti quad latte constitutes most of his lunch, and he almost weeps with gratitude when the barista hands him the large cup.

 

What a day so far. He is happy his client (nor he) did not arrested, and he will be ecstatic to finish the day and go home to rest his poor tired body.

 

…

…

…

 

The rest of the day is spent in the office, meeting with clients, speaking to his investigator, and writing motions. He stumbles out at 6:30pm, so exhausted he takes the metro back instead of walking, even though it only saves him a few minutes at most. The less time he has to remain upright, the better.

 

He gets home to find Darcy still there, miraculously making dinner. He is so happy he tears up.

 

“I love you,” he declares at the entryway, startling her into dropping a spoon she was using to mix a sauce. Not caring, he throws his arms around her in a bear hug. “Marry me. Make my grandmama proud. She still has hopes that I will recover from the ‘disease’ affecting my sexuality.”

 

“Ugh, get off me, you smell like dirty subway car, and I am _not_ touching your family issues right now,” but her pleased smile conveys her real feelings on his embrace game. One of the many reasons they get along is because of their similar tactile natures with close friends and family.

 

“Isn’t that simply a subway car?” he wonders, complying with her wishes and slumping happily on his couch slash dining room seat. Seriously, his studio is small. But the price is worth it to live alone and occasionally come back to Darcy cooking delicious food.

 

His best friend lives in Georgetown, a fair distance from his apartment (he is southeast of the National mall), but he supposes it makes sense since she attends school there and works on Roosevelt Island, so a short commute for her. If only he could convince her the best part of town, his, would be worth the increase in time getting to school and work…

 

“I suppose not,” she says, interrupting his diabolical plans to force her to move closer to him. “Why did you take the metro? You saved no time.”

 

“I saved exactly six minutes. Worth it. You can’t even imagine my morning.”

 

“I can,” she argues, checking on a pot of rice, and placing the lid back on when she clearly determines it not finished. “Since you literally provided me with a running litany of texts and snapchats. Judge White is old as fuck, how does he even get up and down on the bench?” He’d been particularly proud of that snapchat, taken sneakily as Judge White stood and paused at the large step off the bench to the ground level. He looked disdainful of having to join the rest of the plebian population, and his face wrinkles had wrinkles, his robe practically swallowing his rail thin form whole.

 

Bucky snorts. “Fuck if I know. He is going to outlive us all out of spite. Aliens will invade again, decimate the human and animal population, except for Judge White and the cockroaches.”

 

Darcy sniggers, then swats at him. “You didn’t ask but I had a great day.”

 

“I didn’t ask because you _literally_ provided me with a running litany of texts and snapchats,” he mocks in return. “Which all began around 2pm, you lazyass.”

 

“Jealousy makes you mean,” she pinches his cheeks. “If I hadn’t gotten my requisite nine hours, you wouldn’t be getting fed right now.”

 

He straightens and reverence falls across his features. “I’m so grateful. Unbelievably. This is my most-grateful-ever face, no filter.” A wide, full of teeth smile greets her when she looks over at him.

 

Grimacing, she gestures at him to grab some plates. “You need a filter.”

 

“Ouch,” he grabs his heart. “You speak instadirty to me.”

 

“You are not hashtag blessed.” She grins cheekily.

 

He mimes two shots to the head and heart and puts the plates on the coffee table slash dining room table before falling into fake death on the couch.

 

“You did that so you wouldn’t have to grab the silverware,” she accuses. Correctly.

 

He pops an undead head up. “You are _right_ _there_.”

 

“I made this dinner. And I can take it away,” she threatens, but his pitiful pouty face softens her like butter in the microwave and she grabs the forks with a sigh of bitter resentment. “I am basically your girlfriend but without the benefit of sex.”

 

“So a girlfriend,” Bucky jabs. She snorts.

 

“Who told you were funny? Who started that great misconception? Because I need to have a talk with them.”

 

“You kill all my ego,” he pouts.

 

Darcy smiles, scoops some rice and veggie stir-fry, heaping a large amount of heavenly smelling curry sauce, in one large bowl. She sets the mouth-watering dish on the table, grabs a roll of paper towels because she has trouble eating, mostly from wanting to talk at the same time, and Bucky needs protective gear and cleanup supplies preemptively.

 

She hands him a fork. Grasps her own.

 

They dig in with equally happy moans.

 

He would contentedly savor silence and the delicious food being masticated in his mouth, but Darcy is a dinner and convo type of person. You got food, you gotta talk.

 

“So,” she starts, like clockwork, food churning in pieces in her mouth, “what’s the plan for running into hot dude again?”

 

“Huh?” he grunts, mouth closed when eating, unlike hers. He grimaces in disgust.

 

“Don’t give me that face,” she says around chewed rice and split broccoli half slipping from her teeth, “we had this talk already and I won the tiebreaker.”

 

“You cheated,” he says, knowing this deep in his bones.

 

An eyeroll. “How does one cheat at rock paper scissor lizard spock, hm?”

 

“I don’t know, but I know it when I see it.” He snatches his fork back. But only because she lets him.

 

“Hot dude,” she says again slowly, still not bothering with manners. Which maketh men AND women, he thinks at her with narrowed eyes. She ignores this.

 

“Yes,” he sighs, the thought still bringing him intense amounts of happiness. The couch is large enough for him to spread most of the way out, so he reclines sideway, with his head on Darcy’s lap and close enough to the food to shovel scoops in. “I’ll probably never see him again,” he adds mournfully.

 

“Not with that negative thinking you won’t.” Darcy sniffs above him, patting his head condescendingly. “Let your favorite person in the entire universe figure this problem out.”

 

“Mom?” Bucky says in a faux-wondering voice, eyes darting toward the door.

 

She rolls her eyes. “Your mom would be so happy if we called her right now to help us find a nice, attractive man for you to settle down with,” and she reaches for her phone.

 

Darcy rarely bluffs.

 

“Let’s not be hasty,” he snatches her phone with quick reflexes, holding the object out of reach while she laughs. “Since my lovely creator isn’t here, you’ll do in a pinch.”

 

“Flattering,” Darcy deadpans, “now give me my phone before I have to hurt you.”

 

He does.

 

“Now we know a few things about your hot dude,” she begins, “first, he is white, tall, blond, and has an ass,” she scrolls through their text message exchange from earlier, “like a twenty-dollar mule. Okay I should have asked earlier but, well, alcohol poisoning. So what the hell does that even mean?”

 

He sighs in exasperation. “Didn’t you ever watch any western movies as a kid? A rancher would only purchase a mule with a large muscular hindquarter. Twenty dollars was a lot of money.”

 

“Right, of course, duh, that’s a normal saying,” she says sarcastically. “Moving on. We also know that he is a runner. And runners have patterns. If he is intense about it, he likely goes around the National Mall at least once or twice a week. So you should probably wake up early one of these days and go for a jog. Couldn’t hurt your figure either.”

 

“Darce!” he cries, “are you calling me fat?”

 

He sees her shrug from his odd angle. “Well if the pants don’t fit…” and she breaks out into giggles.

 

Bucky attacks. A brief break is taken for some grappling before they resolve the dispute with a good old-fashioned headlock. Bucky grunts his surrender. “How am I supposed to compete?” he mutters, “you have four brothers, I have four sisters. This is fundamentally unfair.”

 

“Does the big baby need me to wipe his tears?” she is snarky as they re-settle into their operational position. “’sides, I’m only joking. Obviously, you are a perfect specimen of human being and anyone would be lucky to have a chance to bang your twenty buck muleass.”

 

“Thank you,” he says, satisfied that he won a battle, if not the war. “So what time are we waking up tomorrow?”

 

“ _You_ ,” she corrects sharply. “The question is: what time are _you_ going to wake up?”

 

Bucky saves his cackles for when he is out of hitting range.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things about Bucky's portrayal as a public defender. 
> 
> One: I am basing the court system on a conglomeration of different state's practices. Do not expect to understand how DC actually works. But a lot of what is described, including the terribleness of the judge and penal system, is and will be accurate. People are thrown and kept in jail for stupid charges, ones they will later be acquitted of. Judges have insane discretion to do as they please, with few people acting as a check to balance their power. It is, frankly, bonkers. 
> 
> Two: the motivations and musings Bucky has as a public defender are based on several essays and articles I read about the profession. The more I read about the criminal (in)justice system and how it screws poor black men, the angrier I get too. I hope he seemed authentic.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I enjoy each and every review. I'm hoping to get the next chapter out by Saturday.
> 
> Stay tuned.


	3. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky trips.

Four days later, Bucky actually makes it out of bed early enough for a run and time abound to get ready for work. None of his cases are on the docket, so he plans to sneak in a bit late.

 

His best friend, however, refuses to stir, despite his bombarding her phone with many calls and having set multiple alarms the night before. He suspects she disabled the latter with a simple touch and swipe, and likely put him on her ‘do not disturb’ list. Rude, all the rudes.

 

Still, Bucky decides he does not need a wing woman (run woman?) with him for an early morning jog that will likely not succeed in anything but getting his ass in better shape. He slips out of bed, cursing the early hour and his commitment to finding the super hot dude from his hungover encounter of neigh long ago.

 

Despite his negative can-don’t attitude, the plan actually works.

 

Darcy, the smart cookie she is, correctly predicted where his hot dude would be. Namely, running. Like serious runners do.

 

So at early ass o'clock, the one and only morning he manages to tear himself out of his cozy sweet blissful bed, he strikes gold.

 

Bucky arrives at his previous location of encounter, and meets with actual and immediate success. (This should have been an early red flag, he will reflect later.)

 

The beautiful man is doing some serious laps around the Mall. He is a blur, identifiable to Bucky only when he stops for a moment to admire a flower...no really, that is what it appears the lovely human is doing.

 

Now that Bucky has the opportunity to speak with the visual masterpiece, he is paralyzed with hesitation. He realizes, a bit belatedly, that it's a bit creepy to force another encounter with a stranger based strictly on his desire to bang him. If Darcy had related a man doing that to her, Bucky would have a restraining order or two to slap him with, some words, and a fist or two named Logic and Reason.

 

Not cool. He is not being cool right now. But...something stronger than the urge to not look like a complete stalker takes hold. He wants to speak to the runner again. Not only bang him, but give him his water bottle back and thank him for his kindness. His eyes. Bucky wants to look into his eyes again. As much vomit as that thought induces, he allows the sentiment to firmly root itself in his core conscious decision-making.

 

That is a good reason, returning someone's property and looking them in the eyes when he does so. Rights the order of the universe. Restores karmic balance. Comports with the manners his mama raised him with.

 

His decision to initiate another encounter entirely rationalized, Bucky decidedly strides in the opposite way runner is going. A sound strategy, to go the other way so he is able to head the guy off. He takes a moment to stretch his legs and then starts to jog. Steadily, he picks up the pace.

 

It is nice, he thinks, to enjoy a breezily summer morning, humidity not overpowering, temperature warm but not stifling. He's always been a fairly active person - soccer and basketball his childhood sports. He continued with soccer in college. He maintains his physical condition now with gyms visits and his league sports teams. Both the team aspect and the ability to compete in a setting without dire real world consequences he finds enjoyable. Running, while never his main occupation, is ancillary enough to his other activities to be taken up with relative ease.

 

He does a slow pace, his thoughts drifting further. The Fourth of July is coming up and he usually goes home to Brooklyn to celebrate. But given what happened over Christmas, he still does not have the energy to make the trek home and deal with his family. One at a time, sure; but the whole gang at their annual BBQ? Nah, he will reevaluate things come Thanksgiving. His mom would not be pleased, and he winces thinking about her reaction to him going almost an entire year without visiting home.

 

These musings are interrupted by a ping of his phone, indicating an incoming text. Slowing down only slightly, he grabs the device from his pocket and glances down to read. While still running, albeit at a slower pace.

 

What happens next is entirely his fault. And incredibly bad luck.

 

A fast blur is approaching up ahead. Bucky pays the blur no mind, caught up with his digital life like a true millennial.

 

The cement on the sidewalk is slightly uneven, owed to the millions of tourists that walk that path and the city's inability to keep up with every tiny imperfection.

 

By looking down at his phone, by running and texting, Bucky does not see the uneven sidewalk.

 

He hits the edge at just the right angle to cause his shoe to catch. The whoosh of air as he falls to the ground is as startling as the approach of it.

 

He doesn't even have time to try and catch himself. Instead, he braces. Pain, pain is what he is expecting.

 

...but his face does not meet the ground.

 

"Fuck," he breathes, confused, and immobile due to the suddenness of falling then not falling.

 

Arms are around him.

 

A fantastic smell permeates his nose.

 

And a concerned voice, extremely familiar, asks, "Are you okay?"

 

WHAT ARE THE ODDS??

 

Bucky wants to go back to face slamming into the ground, where he would not have to acknowledge to the very hot stranger he'd been attempting to interact with that he was not a complete disaster all of the time.

 

"Um," he reverts to his excellent verbal self, the shining specimen he displayed last time they met. Which was, oh, only a few days ago. "Yes."

 

The man does a double take upon Bucky speaking. "Didn't I--"

 

"Give me your water bottle, saving me from certain dehydration? Yes, you did," Bucky finishes, stepping away from the warm and solid embrace of the stranger.

 

Up close, not hungover, embarrassed but wide awake with the residual adrenaline of the near-fall, Bucky sees the full extent of the handsome stranger.

 

He gasps. Not because of his sturdy and chiseled jaw, bulky shoulders, narrow waist, or beautiful face. Those are all worthy of such a reaction. No, the gasp is one of recognition.

 

  
"Fuck," slips out again and the color of his face is turning a lovely shade of mortified tomato. "You're..." he starts, then stops, waving his hand expressively in utter disbelief at the further happenings of the last minute.

 

Steve Rogers, the Avenger known as Captain America, looks disappointed that Bucky clearly recognizes him. "Yes," he says curtly. A strained smile takes the place of the one he had aimed two days ago at Bucky, losing potency in effect. Steve Rogers is obviously braced for some sort of awkward encounter, and the pained resignation is adorable.

 

This is what saves Bucky from making a bigger fool of himself. He gathers the few wits he has and laughs. "Your name is yes?" he finds it easier to tease now that he can find some humanizing characteristic to the visually stunning man hero. "And I thought I got shafted in the name department."

 

Steve Rogers looks so surprised by the quip, he unintentionally snorts.

 

Bucky takes this, and the fact that Steve is still standing there, as a sign to continue. "This makes twice in one week that you've helped me out, man. Thanks for the saves. I'm not normally this much," he grapples with the right description, "a national Mall-aimed mess."

 

"Oh, a regular aimed mess then?" Steve responds without missing a beat and oh my goodness, is he joking back with Bucky?!

 

Dreams officially come true. Even ones you didn't know you had until the moment they happen.

 

Keep it light and casual!

 

Bucky aims a fake angry look at him. "I was gonna invite you for coffee but now I'm rethinking the wisdom of conversing with such a smartass."

 

Can he even legally call Captain America a smartass? Or is that beyond the protection of the first amendment?

 

Steve raises his hands with a small, but real, smile. "I was only asking a question."

 

"Oh, since that's the case, can I get you a coffee as thanks?" Bucky asks, his light tone remaining with a touch of flirtation.

 

Steve looks hesitant for a brief second but before Bucky has time to over analyze the expression and feel doubt, the blond god answers, "Sure!" with such sincere excitement that Bucky forgets to fret with the euphoria of getting more time and attention from this wonderful person.

 

"Great," he grins stupidly. A coffee date! He hasn't been on a date in…a really long time.

 

They smile at each other stupidly.

 

“Do you want to finish your run? I think the universe is telling me I’m done,” Bucky says.

 

“Nah, I’ve already run enough for today,” Steve responds bashfully, making Bucky suspicious.

 

With a gesture, Bucky starts to lead them toward a decent coffee shop. “How many miles did you run, hm? Six? Eight? Ten?”

 

Steve laughs. “I ran ten for my warm-up.”

 

The brunet’s eyes bug out, sight mostly unseen since they are walking side by side at this juncture. “Dude, what.”

 

“I’m kidding! It was only nine for the warm-up.”

 

“So a marathon or two before breakfast, that’s totally normal,” Bucky deadpans. “I marathon coffee before breakfast.”

 

“Totally normal,” Steve echoes with a smirk in his voice. A complete smartass! Who’d have thunk.

 

The place Bucky has in mind is small, local, and discrete. He knows many politicians come in for their coffees, so the staff is accustomed to famous (or infamous) faces.

 

He hopes he can keep it together enough to show Steve Rogers that he isn’t a total buffoon 24/7.


	4. Disappointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve drink coffee.

Bucky wishes he could take a moment to phone a friend and squee for a solid five minutes before having her tell him exactly what to do.

 

Here's the thing. Bucky's mind is spinning with information and event overload. He tries not to gawk openly at the fact that Captain America, whose life story is amazing, courageous, and inspiring, is accompanying him, a guy nicknamed BUCKY to a coffee shop.

 

Be cool, he tells himself, like a cucumber in a freezer.

 

They chat minimally before reaching the coffee shop Bucky had in mind. Thankfully, it's not crowded and the line is short.

 

Bucky already knows what he is getting. He turns to Steve, glad that he has running as an excuse for the nervous sweat still clinging stubbornly to his face. "What's your poison? You strike me as either a black coffee type of guy or someone who likes sugar with a bit of coffee but nothing in-between."

 

Steve grins sheepishly. Ad-or-able. "You’re perceptive. Since- well, I've developed a taste for Starbucks frappuccinos."

 

Bucky cringes involuntarily. "I suppose if your teeth will never rot from all that sugar, and you'd never gain weight, that makes sense." He is dubious, but polite.

 

"The number one perk," the blond replies stoically, causing Bucky to snort. And to pinch himself when Steve turns to glance over the menu. Because, yeah, his life isn’t even real right now.

 

They get to the front of the line, order, but then a small battle ensues.

 

“I’ve got it,” Bucky edges forward, placing his card on the counter.

 

Only to be blocked. “No, let me.”

 

“No, really, you saved me.”

 

“It wouldn’t feel right.”

 

“Right?! I feel right about paying.”

 

Steve is a superhero.

 

But Bucky is a lawyer.

 

"--and that's why I am contractually bound to pay," he finishes a rather inspired argument only to see that Steve has sneakily left the cash already.

 

And that's why Steve helped them win World War 2.

 

Bucky pouts. "I said I would!"

 

"You did," the blond man agrees as they move to the side of the counter to wait for their drinks.

 

"That was sneaky, you horrible sneak," he accuses sulkily.

 

Steve crosses his enormous muscled arms. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve, other than catching civilians as they fall."

 

"You have people falling into your arms often, hm?" Bucky’s tone measures close to flirtatious. They get their drinks and snag a table toward the back.

 

"Ha, no, mostly when the job requires it." The latter half of the sentence prompts that closed off expression to take residence again. Bucky hastens to change the subject, noting for future reference that the superhero does not like to discuss his job.

 

"How long have you lived in DC?”

 

The response is automatic, instantaneous. “Six hundred and ninety four days.”

 

Having just taken a sip of hot liquid, Bucky feels the unpleasant sensation of choking as he both inhales and spews, actions that one would think were contradictions. But no, he is a complex person.

 

His complexity winds up dribbled on his own shirt and on Steve’s arm.

 

More graciously than Bucky would have been, Steve takes a napkin and dabs the mess up. There is no flush of embarrassment because Bucky has surely used up his reservoir already and now can numbly jump ahead. “Totally sorry but what the hell, dude! You keep track of the number of days you’ve been here?” Who does that, and what does that say about him, Bucky wonders silently.

 

Steve shrugs. “I have a perfect memory and I’m excellent with numbers.”

 

“Um, still. Only people who hate something keep track of time like that,” he responds and regrets the observation almost immediately. Thy name is Bucky Insensitive Barnes. All sorts of reasons could be behind Steve Rogers keeping track of how long he has been in a place, or it could be related to his mental health status considering he woke up seventy years out of time, after a world war. That would mess anyone up.

 

Oddly, Steve laughs. This does nothing to shed light on the nuances of the blond superhero. “To be completely honest,” he says, “I think I might.”

 

“You hate DC?!” No, he must be joking.

 

Another shrug. “Hate is a strong word. Ambivalent, maybe. To be fair, I haven’t seen much.”

 

“You haven’t seen much...that is so wrong! DC is awesome,” Bucky says, accentuating his point with a finger jab.

 

“Maybe it’s the native New Yorker in me, but DC seems fake, like everyone is putting on a show. There’s no grit here.”

 

“Okay, you are looking through the wrong lens. One, I’m from Brooklyn too-”

 

“You are?” Steve blurts, an excited smile blossoming on his face and making it hard to look away and respond back. Bucky manages, barely.

 

“Born and raised and escaped,” Bucky admits, mirroring the smile.

 

“Why ever leave Brooklyn?” Steve is wistful, reminding Bucky of his parents and their expressions when they talk about how Brooklyn used to be, how much the neighborhood has changed.

 

“Well, rent prices, hipsters, and high rises?” Bucky half-jokes. He does love Brooklyn, it’s home. But it’s also home to some people he would rather have distance from.

 

“I haven’t been back in a long time.”

 

“It’s fun,” Bucky admits, “I’ll make you a list of new things to try at some point. But you interrupted me. This isn’t about Brooklyn, this is about the great District of Columbia and the even greater disservice you’ve done her by slandering her good name.” There is some wild hand gestures accentuating his words, per his usual style. “You have to view DC as its own separate and unique city. Do not compare her with NYC or Philly or, and I’m grasping here, LA.”

 

“Her?” is what Steve takes from that.

 

“Clearly. Who else could handle all these douchebag politicians with such grace? Women keep the world running. So DC is a convergence of politics, national security, and culture. And, stay with me here, you need to start with the basics.”

 

“The basics?”

 

Bucky nods. “The basics. You were just running past ‘em. Now, I know many of the locals here haven’t done anything related the National Mall since childhood, but you aren’t in that boat, therefore your first order of business is to get caught up. Look at all the memorials. Explore those museums. Eat in the Department of Ag’s cafeteria. You getting this?”

 

With another sip of his frou frou drink, Steve nods with mock seriousness. “Yes, master tour guide.”

 

Bucky leans back in satisfaction. “My duty as a patriot is complete.”

 

Steve lets out a bark of laughter and then lowers his voice, leaning forward. “It really doesn’t phase you, that I’m…”

 

“A superhero? High level military officer? Really good-looking guy?” Bucky offers.

 

A light shade of red smooths over Steve’s face. “Yes, the first two at least.”

 

Bucky thinks about it carefully. “Maybe if I met you in a different context. But, hey, you saved my ass from grass. And you seem like a nice dude.”

 

“A ‘nice dude,’” Steve muses. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

 

“You clearly don’t get out enough,” Bucky says.

 

“You are the second person to tell me that this week. My colleague, she’s been trying to set me up,” he says glumly.

 

“Oh?” Bucky affects casual interest. “Maybe you should do it. See some of the sights, eat at some internationally renowned restaurants.”

 

Steve hunched into himself, looking surprisingly small. “I don’t know Nancy from accounting, or Karen in PR.”

 

...and Bucky suddenly remembers a key fact about Captain American lore. Namely, his lady love. LADY love. As in, SHE with the girl parts, not the HE parts. And Bucky is stuck, with a frozen small smile and knows this is a part of the conversation where he needs to say something and not bend over and sob his dismay at the glaringly obvious fact of Steve Roger’s heterosexuality.

 

Because, DUH.

 

“Oh,” he manages, “rough life.” That even comes out a tad sympathetic. Mostly because Bucky is talking to himself.

 

And now, a conversation is continuing on the outside, but Bucky’s brain is bombarding him with all the ways in which it is obvious that Steve Rogers does not bat for Bucky’s favorite team. A crying shame, but Bucky could have sworn that the blond man was a tiny bit receptive his flirtatious mechanisms. His gaydar did not scream HERE, but, well, he knows that is not the best way to gauge someone’s sexuality.

 

Bucky wants to bang his head on the table for making assumptions.

 

Bucky wanted to bang the man in front of him. No, that’s too impersonal. He wanted to make sweet, sweet love to the kind beaut.

 

Now, he needs to make it through the rest of the conversation without his disappointment ruining the experience. He can still be friends with Steve Rogers. The man looks like he desperately needs a friend. Yes, he can do that.

 

He is going to be the best damn friend this man has ever had.


	5. Winning

The first order of business after work is to head straight to the bar.

 

Darcy meets him there, dressed in her work clothes. She surveys the scene. "Thirty minute head start and you already looked trashed. The situation is not that dire." This is true. The last time he’d been that quick and deep into his cups was due to A Situation With That Asshole (whose name Darcy still, a year later, replaces with ‘you-know-who’). But there is something very disappointing about his realization from earlier about the sexual orientation of the man of his dreams.

 

"I'm a moron," he moans in response, taking the opportunity to finally bang his head against a surface. He had been waiting all day for an audience for this demonstration. Him, a drama queen? Nah.

 

"You are," his audience agrees. "A moron who needs to stop blowing up my phone during work."

 

"I'm never gonna blow anything again," he says in despair.

 

Darcy pats his back, taking a seat next to him and ordering a beer. "You're so basic."

 

"How could I make so many assumptions?"

 

Darcy gets her beer and drinks half of it in one, long gulp. "I'm not sure how your brain functions,” she muses, “In my opinion? Medical miracle." Okay, he set that up. He can't even muster a 'rude' in response.

 

She sighs, finally starting to take pity at his lack of witty repartee. "Look, real talk. One," she ticks a finger, "if you say the word 'shots' to me at any point this evening, I will assume you are asking me to shoot you. But two, the whole friends with a straight guy thing is so 1980s, Torch Song-esque if he is bi-I-want-a-white-wedding-wife-life. I know you are past that stage. Nothing good comes from this type of scenario."

 

Bucky thinks back to the various and awful situations arising from thinking you can be just friends with a hetero man and then later realizing you can't. "True but, Darce, we had a connection. Like, he is the easiest person to talk to and tease and create new and exciting inside jokes with. It was all very effortless."

 

"I can hear the love struck moon eyes in your voice," Darcy says in mild disgust. "Counselor, let the record reflect that I think pursuing a friendship with him is only going to lead you straight down la calle de heartache."

 

"I know you're probably right," he concedes, downcast, then perks up. "Have you ever run into him?"

 

"Run into Captain America?" Her beer is almost gone and he can see her contemplating going for another. "No. You know I can't talk about my work. But hypothetically I would be in the labs and he would likely be running around doing field work like a sexy mcsexy field agent tends to do."

 

"Small world," Bucky muses, head resting still on the counter. Darcy gets another beer. "With you working part-time at, well, you know."

 

"Right?” she nods. “The more I see, the stranger the world gets, and yet it always seems to be the same people getting wrapped up in the drama. What are the odds, you know? Makes me seriously believe in soul connections and destiny and shit."

 

He LIKES that idea. "Soul connection. Destiny. Yes! I am destined to be friends with him. I can feel it."

 

Darcy makes a face. "Bucky...I'm not gonna talk you out of a bad idea. But it's a bad idea. And I didn’t mean you and him, obviously.”

 

"He's so adorable," Bucky complains with an air of tragedy, once more losing his adultness and thumping his head on the counter. This earns him a glare from the bartender.

 

Darcy smirks, winking at said bartender and getting a small smile in reply. "I'm sure that's what the super serum creator prioritized. Cuteness."

 

"Between Golden retriever puppies, Pumpkin Spice Lattes, and Steve Rogers, I am absolutely certain there is a god."

 

“So, so basic,” Darcy mutters.

 

When the bartender brings over a bottle to pour shots, well, Darcy can’t very well reject his kind offering, and Bucky is only too glad to relieve his great pain and suffering with a little help.

 

...  
...  
...

 

“I hate you more than I hated space elves; more than that stupid intern who left me for a research grant; more than morning marathon runners...this hate is next level shit and, oh god!” A blur moves past his head, and the terrible noise stops for several lovely moments.

Bucky covers his head to drown out the sound of retching coming from the bathroom. But eventually the feeling of nausea also catches up with him and Darcy gains a friend laying on the bathroom floor, bemoaning their existence, generally feeding into mutual misery.

Shots, he finally agrees with Darcy pinching him to his left, are always a bad idea.

...  
...  
...

 

Contrary to his goal to be only friends with Steve, he vacillates indecisively if he should pursue a friendship. He can tell, from the raging demon-level butterflies dancing the tango in his stomach, that he will have a bit of difficulty being just friends. Darcy, of course, is right about that. His previous experience in that arena also supports her point. No buts. (Ugh, he thinks of Steve’s butt, and oh, maybe it IS worth the pain...no, he needs to stay strong.)

 

Work picks up the following week, distracting him from his own pitiful problems.

 

"Officer Thomas," he says as he stands and moves to the podium to begin his cross examination. The hearing is a motion to suppress evidence obtained as a result of an unconstitutional traffic stop. He's been excited for weeks about the hearing, having an ace up his sleeve if all goes well. "You testified today that you pulled Mr. Samuels over because he failed to use a turn signal?"

 

"Yes," the officer responds from the witness box, situated to the right of the judge. Officer Thomas is a young white man, short and slim, having started on the force right out of high school, from a legacy family of cops, according to Bucky’s investigation. He’s been a police officer for five years. He is dressed in his uniform, giving an opposing air to an otherwise unintimidating man. 

 

Bucky locks eyes with him. "You would agree with me, Officer, that it's important that prejudice doesn't affect who you pull over?"

 

"Well, of course it doesn't. I follow the law, and discrimination is illegal," Officer Thomas tersely says, straightening his narrow shoulders to look taller from his seated position, a rather moot exercise.

 

"So, that's a yes?"

 

"That's what I said."

 

“You would agree that pulling someone over for being a man of color is illegal?”

 

Officer Thomas draws back, hisses, “Yes!”

 

“Objection,” the prosecutor cries, looking confused at Bucky’s line of questioning, but seeming like he needs to say something. Bucky hates this prosecutor--he acts like every defendant personally offended and committed the crime against him, even when it’s as mild as a traffic infraction. “This has no relevance.”

The judge is thankfully a relatively fair woman, unlike Judge White, one that knows the law well enough to give the prosecutor a glare. “This goes to bias, so I’m going to allow the questions. Continue, Mr. Barnes.”

 

Bucky does, suppressing the urge to stick his tongue out at the prosecutor. Must be a grownup, must be a grownup. “Did you pull over Mr. Samuels over because he is a man of color?” he asks directly.

 

The officer is steadily gaining a red hue, which goes poorly with his sharp features. “No, I would never do something like that.”

 

Ah. The magic words.

 

“You would never pull someone over because of their skin color?” Bucky clarifies.

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Officer Thomas, you’re aware that the body cameras you wear record what you see and what you say?”

 

“Yeah, when I turn it on.”

 

“Right, so the policy of the police department is for you to turn on that camera when you make a stop, or detain a citizen, correct?”

 

“That’s correct,” the officer agrees warily.

 

“And you turned on the camera, as required by your own department, when you stopped Mr. Samuels?”

 

“I did, but the camera malfunctioned, like I told the prosecutor when he asked me about it.” 

 

“So you turned it on, but it’s your testimony that the camera didn’t record because of a malfunction?”

 

“That’s what I said!” Officer Thomas exclaims, growing more and more irritated.

 

Bucky grabs a device on his counsel table, giving his client a small smile, and looks at the judge. “Your honor, at this time, I’d like to introduce a recording of a conversation between Officer Thomas and his partner Officer Jorges, taken at the time and place of Mr. Samuels stop, that will show Officer Thomas racially profiled when he pulled Mr. Samuels over.”

 

The prosecutor jumps to his feet, apoplectic. “Objection!” he screams. 

 

They approach the judge’s bench to discuss (well, shout, if you’re the prosecutor) this newest piece of evidence. Of course, as Bucky knew it would, the judge admits the recording once the authenticity is established by the time stamp and the familiar voice of the officer.

 

By this time, Officer Thomas is looking ashen more than volcanic.

 

The beauty of the recording is that there is no doubt left after Bucky plays it. Officer Thomas makes several comments using the n-word, indicates him and his partner should pull over Bucky’s client and pretend they had a legitimate reason when none actually exists. 

 

The icing on this cake is the decision, audible and damning, for Officer Thomas to turn off the camera and not record the interaction. Unfortunately for him, he only manages to turn the video feature off, and not the audio one. 

 

Bucky had a great connection in the DC police tech department who’d checked and found this gem.

 

“I have no choice but to dismiss this case. Anything that happened after the defendant was stopped unlawfully is the result of an unconstitutional seizure, and is thus fruit of a poisonous tree. The drugs obtained because Officer Thomas stopped Mr. Samuels and searched his vehicle is therefore suppressed evidence and unusable in a case against him. I dismiss under my authority granted by federal law. Mr. Silva,” she speaks to the prosecutor, who now looks deflated from the proceedings, and that sight alone is satisfying, “I expect your office to investigate this matter. I am not going to find perjury charges at this time, but I will be checking on your findings and taking action if I am displeased.”

 

Bucky’s client stands with a quiet exclamation of happiness and hugs him tightly. The case dismissed had been a drug trafficking charge, and Mr. Samuels hadn’t been able to work while the case pended. Now, Mr. Samuels would be able to go back to work to provide for his family, the reason he’d been involved in the drug trade to begin with.

 

They leave the courthouse as quickly as possible. Bucky has a fear that the judge will change her mind, and so he tries to be out of sight with speed.

 

A quick de-brief and farewell later, Bucky is riding the high of a victory when his phone rings, likely from his supervisor or a colleague calling to get the blow-by-blow.

 

He answers without checking caller ID. “I nailed it!” he shouts happily. “I thought that lying racist fucker with a badge was going to start bawling during cross.” He pauses to savor that memory, waiting for laughter or praise. 

 

Instead:

 

“...congratulations?” Steve’s gorgeous voice humorously says.

 

Bucky freezes. Slowly, he distends the phone from his ear, looks at the screen, cringes at his movie-level rookie mistake. 

 

He feels both elated that Steve called and freaked out that Steve called.

 

“Hi!” he says belatedly. “Um, thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Steve replies, still that edge of laughter in his voice. “What exactly were you doing? I don’t know what ‘cross’ is.”

 

“Oh, well um, a cross examination of a police officer during a motion to suppress,” Bucky explains, his brows folding down in a large cringe. 

 

“Those words still don’t mean much,” the man on the phone admits with an audible smile in his voice. “Can I treat you to a coffee and you can explain? I understand if your busy,” Steve adds sheepishly.

 

Treat him to coffee? That sounded like a date! But friends also treated each other, especially during times of good news, so maybe it isn’t like that at all and Bucky is projecting heavily.

 

“Um, yes, of course you can! I’m making a measly public servant salary and could use all the free coffee you want to give me,” Bucky says, “except for the times I offer to pay. Then you are obligated to let me.” Oh my god, what is he blithering on about! A simple yes would suffice. “That was super rude, you know, that one time you tricked me. But I guess you can make it up to me with more coffee.” Why. Can’t. He. Stop. Talking!

 

But Steve simply chuckles and agrees that he owes Bucky a coffee for both the win and the previous affront to his dignity--so two. This, Bucky disputes, but they end up meeting thirty minutes later and Steve obligingly purchases him a post-win latte.

 

Coffee goes well. Being with Steve is easy, fun, and they have a rapport that Bucky has only had with a few people ever, and none so quickly after meeting. The conversation isn’t flirtatious, precisely, but he wouldn’t say it wasn’t. All the negative double-speak to say: in a certain prudential light, Bucky thinks Steve might be lightly flirting with him. He can hardly ask and potentially alienate the man, however. Straight guys can be surprisingly sensitive about their sexuality getting misread. And Bucky is allergic to rejection.

 

But they talk like old friends. Steve is properly admiring of Bucky’s job and listens closely, asking intelligent questions. Sometimes people, especially those tangential or in law enforcement, will see what Bucky is doing as slimy. And yes, his job is to keep people out of jail, even the ones who are completely guilty of what they are charged with. But jails are inhumane awful places! As unpopular as his opinion is, Bucky wouldn’t wish his worst enemy to the DC jail or, worse, the state prison.

 

“You have to remember,” Bucky says passionately, “that my clients are poor, usually men of color, and they are supposed to be presumed innocent. But they aren’t! The entire system is stacked against them!” and he goes on to explain in detail the ways in which the criminal injustice system is flawed. Steve listens, appearing to be highly interested, for forty-five minutes until Bucky, blushing, realizes how long he’s monopolized the conversation.

 

“No, no, it’s interesting to hear how much and how little have changed with civil rights.” Steve waves away his apology. 

 

“I want to hear what your experience was like growing up, in well…”

 

“The Great Depression?” Steve offers wryly.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, trying not to show how eager he is to actually hear about history firsthand. His grandfather had always kept Bucky riveted as a kid with tales of his childhood and fighting in the war. 

 

Their afternoon break wraps up when Bucky realizes that he needs to get back to the office. 

 

“You, um,” Steve starts and then stutters, looking at the ground nervously. “you mentioned there were a few places I should check out in DC?”

 

“Yeah, I totally did say that. I'll text you a list of the basics,” Bucky promises as they stand slowly, gathering their belongings leisurely. Or, really, Bucky listing his briefcase from the floor and Steve twiddling his thumbs bashfully. 

 

“Or,” Steve suggests with his beautiful and perfect mouth, “you could be my tour guide. Only if you aren't busy. And no obligation whatsoever! I thought it might be fun and-”

 

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts with a giddy smile, “I'd love to.”

 

...  
...  
...

 

“What?! Wow.” 

 

“It sounds like a date to you, right?” 

 

“I really don't know, Buck. I could see this going either way, heartbreak or heart...whole? Full? Make? Whatever the opposite of heartbreak is.”

 

“I’m going crazy. I feel crazy. I keep thinking of elaborate activities for us to do together. What restaurants I want to bring him to. The best monuments to take him to. If we should do a physical activity because I think he'd like that stuff. We've been texting constantly since coffee a few days ago. He's never had Ethiopian food, Darce!”

 

“That's sad. But also an adorable date idea. Aw, you can eat food with your hands, fight over the last pieces. Totes adorbs.”

 

“Totes not gonna happen!”

 

“My opinion is changing. Maybe he digs both chicks and dicks.”

 

“I freaking hope so. Otherwise I am going to fling myself off the Teddy.”

 

“Messy and uncertain, at what time of day are you thinking?”

 

“Obviously not during rush hour. No car would be going fast enough.”

 

“I thought we agreed on a nice, unexpected House of Cards style metro death?”

 

“I just don't trust you to have enough fling strength. With my luck, you’d trip and knock over a child or pregnant woman or kind elderly man.”

 

“Good point. Okay so the Teddy in non-rush hours. Noted.”

 

“AHH! He just texted me, hold on.”

 

“Stop, ugh no, you know I hate the clicky noises when you respond to texts with me on the phone.”

 

“He wants to know if I’m free this weekend! AHH!”

 

“OW! Was screaming in my ear necessary?! God, you’re the worst.”

 

“He likes me, he really likes me.”

 

“That’s because he doesn’t know you that well yet.”

 

“Aw, what if he realizes that I’m a total and complete disaster? How do I hide myself??”

 

“Oh shut up I was joking, and if you make me have to give you a compliment, I will barf.”

 

“Darcy.”

 

“Bucky.”

 

“Where should I take him! What should I wear!”

 

“I don’t know. You only have a million options to choose from. Oh shit, I think my boss is heading towards me. Text me!”

 

“No, I need help--damn you.”

 

Bucky sighs as he takes the phone away from his ear and stares despairingly at the text conversation between him and Steve.

 

He thinks for a minute, and begins to respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Teddy: the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. I don't think anyone but these two refer to it that way.
> 
> Torch Song: an amazing play first produced in the 1980s and re-written in the 90s. Brought back to Broadway this year and condensed from three plays into one. Any summary I'd give would spoil and/or not do the play justice. If you ever get the opportunity, see it!! It's something I could imagine Bucky seeing in NYC.
> 
> Thank you to all of you who kindly reviewed this story. I read and cherish each of your comments. I will definitely try and get the next chapter out as quickly as possible! Happy holidays everyone!


	6. Interactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve go to a museum.

Bucky decides to take Steve to the American-Indian Museum.

 

The decision is tough. He knows, based on Steve’s proclaimed interest in art, that he’d enjoy some of the more art focussed museums. But that could be a trip an artist should take on their own, and not with company. The Air and Space Museum is also hip and cool, but Bucky isn’t as interested in the topic. The dinosaur exhibit at the Natural History Museum could entertain him for awhile, but he thinks he should hold off on exposing Steve to Bucky’s way-too gleeful excitement, reminiscent of a hyperactive 8-year old but with no parents to reign in the behavior.

 

The American-Indian Museum strikes a balance between Bucky’s dual objectives: cool displays and thought-provoking relevant history. The building itself is architecturally magnificent, with a curved building clad in a golden-colored limestone designed to evoke natural rock formations shaped by wind and water over thousands of years.

 

Yet when he arrives, anxiety infuses Bucky. He waits near the entrance, shifting his weight from leg to leg. What if Steve realizes that Bucky is super lame or thinks he is uninteresting? What if he hates this? What if he never wants to see Bucky again? 

 

“Hey Buck,” Steve says from behind Bucky, startling him into yelping in a way that Darcy would tease him for years about if she witnessed it. Thankfully, she is not here.

 

Bucky turns to greet his friend, NOT date, and the words die in his throat.

 

Steve quirks an eyebrow. An eyebrow obscured by the beanie covering his forehead.

 

“What are you…” Bucky swallows, tries again. “Why are you wearing that?”

 

“Wearing what?” Steve asks innocently.

 

Bucky narrows his eyes. No one is that oblivious. Especially not the man in front of him. A few brief flashes go through Bucky’s mind. Steve definitely wore Lululemon running shorts when Bucky saw him out jogging. And Air Jordans. With a fitbit. At the coffee shop, his clothing brands were harder to identify, mostly because Bucky is not that into fashion. But he also has dated many gay men. Steve’s outfit was understated but definitely screamed well-made and expensive.

 

So seeing Steve in an unflattering I Love America t-shirt paired with mustard yellow corduroys, a green beanie, and large wire-rimmed glasses, well, it was surprising.

 

“You look...unique,” Bucky tries tactfully, wondering if Steve seriously picked this outfit and the other occasions had been happy accidents.

 

Steve beams at him. “This old thing? I’ve had it since the 20s. I thought I’d put a little extra effort in today.”

 

...and that smile is a little too smiley.

 

“You fucker,” Bucky says with a laugh, not sure what the deal is but knowing there is one.

 

Steve, the clear trolling fucker dressed like a thrift store reject, winks. Then he explains: “A friend of mine thought this would be a good disguise. People tend to look away from eyesores. I try to ignore when people take pictures and write about me in the papers, but I didn’t want anyone to bother you.”

 

Which makes Bucky melt like a cheap candle. “Oh. In that case, you look great. Like someone who watches Fox news bred with a California surfer. Like patriotic vomit.”

 

Steve chuckles and they stroll casually toward the entrance, chatting about their weeks. Or as much as either can reveal without betraying their respective confidentiality requirements.

 

When they get to the entrance and go inside, Bucky quickly understands that his anxiety is for naught.

 

Steve _loves_ the museum.

 

No, that doesn’t seem to be a strong enough word- he is riveted and would likely have spent the whole day there if Bucky hadn’t whiningly convinced him to go to the cafeteria to take a break after three hours of browsing.

 

One of the other reasons Bucky’s likes this particular museum is because the food is really, really good. There is a rotating selection of cultural cuisines at the Mitsitam Cafe, and several stations to get the different tribes’ foods.

 

Steve must also see these merits because his eyes shine and he gets a truly alarming amount to eat. Like, two trays full.

 

“I have a fast metabolism,” he says defensively when Bucky’s eyes bug out at the total cost.

 

“I’m going to get fat around you,” Bucky mutters.

 

They find a table with luck and some New Yorker swiftness. Steve looks a bit hesitant when they beat a mother and her three daughters to the spot. Bucky has no such compunctions.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Bucky warns, seeing the intent starting to form behind the tall man’s eyes. “We got here fair and square. And it’s not our fault she decided to have children. That’s what being pro-choice is all about, you know. She made her choice and because of that, she was too slow to get to the table. We should respect that.”

 

“I thought you were a bleeding heart,” Steve gives Bucky a Disappointed Look.

 

The Look is a sea of blue, a face of an angel, and the ferociousness of a lion’s will, all aimed at one measly person who has no barriers to protect against such a look.

 

Bucky freezes in a way that is possibly comparable to a deer caught in a headlight. He then jumps up. “Excuse me, ma’am?” he says loudly to the mother to get her attention, “would you like this table?” He is definitely gritting his teeth.

 

Steve grins smugly. 

 

“My bleeding heart is now officially bled out,” he says firmly, once they find another spot. 

 

But of course, there’s an elderly couple.

 

And then a person in a wheelchair.

 

When he sees a really adorable family coming their way behind Steve, he finally clues in enough to steer the man to a corner table, as far away from the crowds as possible. He would force Steve to sit facing the wall if he could get away with it, but the other man hyper vigilantly chooses to always be with his back to the wall.

 

“Wow,” Bucky sighs when they finally sit for longer than ten seconds and Steve doesn’t make any moves to martyr their table, “You’re a great person but I kinda hate you right now.”

 

“I get that a lot,” Steve says, smirking.

 

“I bet you do.” Bucky gets his phone out and gets on snapchat to snap a picture of the spread. He then digs into his food, now cold. Still delicious. He also immediately starts eating from one of Steve’s many plates, and sighs in happiness. 

 

When he looks up to say something to Steve about the rice dish, the man is staring at him with a hard to read expression.

 

“What?” Bucky asks self-consciously, running his tongue over his teeth and then lips to get rid of excess crumbage. 

 

“Nothing,” Steve blinks, looks away. “So any plans this weekend?”

 

“Aside from hanging out with this guy I know with bad taste in fashion,” Bucky aims his most charming and seductive smile at Steve, but gets no reaction. He resists pouting, reminding himself that they are f-r-i-e-n-d-s. Which s-u-c-k-s. "And having dinner with Darcy, which she will hopefully cook."

 

Steve shovels some food into his mouth, moaning softly in a way that Bucky has to mentally tune out so he doesn’t spring a boner. He still watches Steve eat, a pleasure truly worth the silence.

 

Then Steve asks, “Is Darcy your girlfriend?” and Bucky chokes on air.

 

“No, Steve, no,” he coughs and then laughs at the thought, and then considers. “I mean, if I were straight, yeah, in half a heartbeat. And she has called herself my girlfriend without sex- which, really, for the majority of couples I know is just a girlfriend.” He cackles at his own repeated joke, and looks to share the merriment with Steve but he fades down at the other man’s mien.

 

Steve looks perplexed and painfully awkward. 

 

Oh shit. Maybe this is it. Steve is about to go all hetero male on Bucky and put physical distance between them and make it clear that Steve is as straight as a lamp post. 

 

Even as Bucky braces himself for the impact of what Steve is about to say, he can’t help the painful sinking of his hopes. 

 

“I didn’t know,” Steve starts and then stops, as if searching for the right words to say. His leg vibrates nervously under the table, tapping. Bucky wishes he could put his hand on Steve’s knee to calm him, but that would obviously be crossing the boundary Steve is about to establish. 

 

This is the situation that Darcy feared would happen, one that he has been in before, and that they both know the ending to. Falling for a straight guy--a rite of passage for many a gay youth--is incredibly overdone and cliche. It also never ends well for him.

 

“That’s...” Steve starts again, reddening and looking down at the table, and Bucky bites his lip, waiting, bracing for the inevitable mumbled reinforcements of Steve’s masculinity-- “Wow, there is nothing I can say right now that won’t sound condescending.”

 

And they will stop hanging out and texting and that will be fine if sad- wait, what?

 

“What?” 

 

Steve is not over his momentary bout of redness from the path the conversation steered, but he looks up and meets Bucky’s eyes, hold his gaze. “I lived in a time when that kind of preference was impossible, but I’ve never thought that people should be restricted in who they love. We have enough problems in the world and more love shouldn’t be one.”

 

The wave of relief that hits Bucky is so intense he is glad he is sitting. He also feels stupid. With any other person, he wouldn’t have cared so much and wouldn’t have felt so ready to sedately accept whatever homophobic, however subtle, things they were going to say. He pushes away whatever that says about him, and gathers his personality back. “You know it’s not a preference, right? I’ve always felt this way, I didn’t really have a choice.”

 

Steve looks adorably bashful now. “I’m still learning more about GLBT and reading the literature.”

 

Bucky chuckles, and this seems to break the tension that had sprung up. “The acronym was originally LGBT, but now there’s a lot more labels and the longer form is LGBTQIA+. You can still use LGBT for short.”

 

“So many options,” Steve mutters and then catches himself, correcting, “categories.”

 

Bucky nods his approval. He doesn’t always like to take the role of educator, but Steve does have a lot of compelling reasons he may not be as woke as he should be. And Bucky likes Steve as a person and believe in his genuineness. “I realized that I liked dic-uh, men, when I was pretty young.”

 

“Is it rude to ask how your parents reacted?” Steve says with guileless eyes.

 

Bucky shakes his head. “My mom didn’t care. My dad...well, it’s complicated,” he says with slow finality. The relationship with his father is not something he wants to talk about, so he turns the topic. “When did you know you were straight?” is question that he gets great enjoyment in asking his hetero friends to point out how silly it is.

 

Steve, his color having faded previously, turns red again. “Uh, I, well, I don’t know...”

 

“You don’t need to answer,” Bucky laughingly interjects, feeling smug that his point is proven at how inane a question that is to ask someone unless they bring it up. 

 

He turns the conversation completely by asking Steve what he thinks about one of the exhibits and they enjoy the rest of their meal together discussing that.

 

Bucky pushes any complicated feelings away, determined to enjoy his new friendship and discard any other hopes he’d carried. (Easier said than done when Steve has the most adorable chuckle and sassiest bitch face. But Bucky is going to try his damnedest.)

…  
…  
…

“...and then he asked me what my favorite exhibit was, and I told him that the video on the top floor that plays in the rotunda definitely vies for number one, but the Incan quilts were truly beautiful-”

 

“Oh my god, no please. No more quilts,” Darcy moans in the bakery section of Whole Foods. 

 

“But the quilts were so detailed, truly a work of art. Big, beautiful, complicated tapestries,” Bucky says dreamily. 

 

“If I wanted to hear every mushy detail about your date, I would’ve brought my ear plugs,” she replies, grabbing a loaf of bread and analyzing the nutrient content on the back. She grabs another and looks between the two. “Do we want rustic olive focaccia or rosemary ciabatta?”

 

Bucky gives her a disappointed look. “Oh honey.”

 

“Don’t ‘oh honey’ me, just answer my question without going on a thirty minute rant about the different types of bread and their uses. Please, please, please.”

 

“This is basic knowledge,” Bucky pats her arm grimly. “Ciabatta is for sandwiches, which you could infer because it’s a more contained bread with a structured top and easy to cut in half to put stuff in the middle.”

 

“I’m going to put stuff in your middle,” she threatens with narrowed eyes, shaking two vastly different loaves of bread at him. Neither of which can do much damage. French bread on the other hand- well, he hopes she stays far away from that.

 

“Focaccia,” Bucky continues undeterred by her irritated gaze, “is crumbly, light, and airy. Best suited for pizzas and as a dipping bread.”

 

“Baker Bucky,” she spits. “That still didn’t answer my question or solve this dilemma.”

 

“Geez lady, what’s up with you? You’re such a sour puss tonight- well, usually, but more so than usual tonight,” he asks in concern, putting an arm around her shoulders. She is tense but relaxes slightly when he squeezes her to him in a side embrace. 

 

“We’re tabling your use of the phrase ‘sour puss’ for another time,” she snarks but then turns her face to bury into chest. “Work and school are just really stressful right now. I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to balance both. And there’s this guy…”

 

“A guy?” Bucky repeats suspiciously. “What guy? Nathan in IT? Karem from your writing class? Joel the barista?”

 

Darcy tries not to look guilty, but Bucky can practically smell it. He gasps loudly, drawing the eyes of fellow Whole Foods shoppers to them. Yep, definitely not Brooklyn where no one would’ve given them a single glance. Sometimes he misses the uncrackable exterior of New Yorkers. He makes a mental note to text that lamentation to Steve after he finishes his interrogation.

 

“You’ve betrayed me, haven’t you,” Bucky declares in a more inside-oriented voice. A mother gathers her daughter to her side, giving the pair of friends a wide berth. “Who haven’t you told me about? Speak, woman!”

 

His best friend is many things--sassy, intelligent, hard-working, brutal at times- but a good secret keeper, she is not. She folds like an amateur poker player. “Oh, fine! But it’s nothing and you’re not allowed to make fun of me, understood?”

 

“I would never,” he lies blithely.

 

“Don’t test me.”

 

“Tell me!” he whines, grabbing the focaccia from her hand to keep it hostage.

 

She glares, puts the ciabatta in the basket and begins wheeling their cart toward the dairy section. “Fine. I’ve taken up a flirtation.”

 

“A flirtation? You’ve been reading too many Regency romance novels again.”

 

“Shut. Up. You know I’ve cut down to one a month since the New Year.”

 

“We share a Kindle account, babe.”

 

She purses her lips together. “A huge mistake, and I have no further comment on that.”

 

Bucky pauses with her in front of the vast selection of yogurts. They stare, together, in momentary appreciation. “Honey vanilla cranberry swirl?”

 

“You know it,” Darcy says, and loads up.

 

“Okay, so this flirtation. Who, may I ask, is it with?”

 

“You may not,” she smiles toothily, grasping a container of almond milk, the kind he prefers, and placing it in the basket. He flicks her. “Ow, geez! It’s with a scientist in my department. Just a guy I see a lot. I doubt he even notices I’m flirting with him.”

 

“Wow, you drew that confession out and give me nothing? Lame.”

 

“It IS nothing,” she insists. “I guess I get a little bummed out when someone doesn’t notice my ample amount of charms.”

 

“What charms?”

 

“Correction: someone, meaning a heterosexual cisgender available male. I'm usually a hit with that demographic.”

 

“You said he’s a scientist. He probably is oblivious, if the stereotypes about those brainy types are true.”

 

“They’re true,” Darcy confirms with a frown. “He seems oblivious, but I’m not sure why I’m so emotionally wrung about this particular guy.”

 

“Great bod? Dopey grin? Deep oceanic eyes?” Bucky offers, drumming his fingers on the handlebar of the shopping cart. 

 

“Stop describing Steve,” she orders, pushing him aside and guiding the cart toward the checkout line. Which is like a mile long at this point and now Bucky remembers why he doesn’t come to Whole Foods. “And no. Well, maybe a great bod, it’s hard to tell under all the sweaters and long-sleeved shirts.”

 

“Sweaters in the summer is a statement.”

 

“Our building does get really cold, and he is constantly trying to maintain his zen. He’s very spiritual, only drinks tea and eats super well. I’ve seen him toting a yoga mat around.”

 

Bucky gives her a look. “Are you sure he wants the puss and not the peen?”

 

“Mostly sure,” she says, poking him.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Whining is such an ugly look on you.”

 

The line starts to move, albeit at a glacial pace. They are rounding a corner, passing by a drink and fruit display, when another shopper starts inching closer to the front of the line. 

 

“Oh no, oh no no,” Darcy whispers to him, nodding her head at the woman fake-browsing at the front and just about to step and cut line. 

 

“Darcy-” Bucky starts.

 

The woman cuts the line, and Darcy loudly says, “Excuse you, the line starts back there.”

 

No response. The woman merges more into the line, others looking at her with disgust but not saying anything. Darcy, however, is furious. She starts to move forward, but Bucky grabs her arm. “Let it go,” he says.

 

“You can’t cut the line. We all have to suffer and do our time. It’s the price we pay for wanting to spend our whole paychecks on one bag of groceries,” Darcy shouts pointedly.

 

Others murmur their agreement but still do not act.

 

Bucky shakes his head, letting his hair fall to obscure his face and turns away in embarrassment. “I’m not with her,” he tells the guy behind him.

 

“Go to the back of the line!” Darcy continues, gaining steam.

 

“Darcy, you’re gonna get arrested for disorderly conduct and I’m going to watch and do nothing,” he hisses threateningly. 

 

She, of course, ignores him, and stomps forward, leaving him with the cart. “No,” he groans to himself.

…  
…  
…

 

They leave Whole Foods, without groceries, and politely being told they would not be welcomed back. 

 

“At least the police weren’t called,” Darcy says glumly. 

 

Bucky glares at her. “That would have at least made that whole outburst rewarding for me. You know I like being arrested. It’s a chance to assert my rights and the unjust process from a different angle.”

 

“You said you wouldn’t represent me!”

 

“And I wouldn’t have. Because I would've been sitting right next to you. But, really, that was ridiculous. What the hell, Darce! Who gets banned from Whole Foods?” 

 

“That woman was the villain in this! She should’ve just gone to the back of the line like everyone else.”

 

Bucky stops, turns, and grips Darcy by the shoulders. “That woman looked like she was at least 95 years old.”

 

“Yeah, exactly!” Darcy exclaims. “She was old enough to know better. She’s had 95 years of experience with lines. I don’t know why she thinks she can get away with those shenanigans now.”

 

“I can’t with you,” Bucky despairs, releasing her shoulders and flouncing away in extreme annoyance.

 

Darcy runs up beside him. “Aw, stop that. Indian takeout on me?”

 

He slows down. “Fine, but I want two entrees.”

 

She scoffs. “I’m not paying for lunch tomorrow too. One entree and extra naan.”

 

“Alright,” he concedes. “But you’re going to also let me talk about Steve for an hour.”

 

“Shit,” she mutters, “how about ten minutes?”

 

“Two hours.”

 

“Ugh, fine an hour! God, I hate negotiating with you.”

 

Despite having no honey vanilla cranberry yogurt, they make do.

…  
…  
...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this pet theory that Steve would dress well and be into technology, aided by the other people on his team and SHIELD. So. 
> 
> For those of you who noticed my fumbled update a few weeks back- I am so, so sorry! I somehow managed to duplicate the last chapter, delete what I wrote for this chapter, and had my computer freeze and did a forced re-boot. So I had to re-write this chapter completely, which worked out okay I think.
> 
> I swear, we will hit some bumps soon, but I am having way too much fun writing Bucky and Darcy's interaction and taking the slow burn route. 
> 
> As always, thank you to the lovely people reading this silly fun story! Reviews are cherished.


	7. Awareness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's love got to do with it?

Bucky starts by taking Steve to the most popular places.

 

One week he introduces Steve to the National Portrait Gallery, then various memorials. The next outing is to Eastern Market with a trip to the Library of Congress. The many following are an assortment of touristy activities littered with the beginnings of local spots. 

 

In the course of two months, Steve becomes both a regular fixture in Bucky’s free time and someone he texts daily. Bucky’s puppy crush, while not disappearing, does fade into a more stable admiration. He finds he can manage his feelings and not (visibly) drool over Steve.

 

Work, too, is going well. Bucky wins Mr. Johnson’s case, getting a dismissal for the prosecutors inability to meet each element of the offense charged. Better still, Judge White leaves for another jurisdiction to terrorize, at least for awhile. And a couple of cases that Bucky thought for sure would be going to trial end up settling with a decent plea bargain of no jail time.

 

On the earlier side of one evening, Bucky finds himself done with work for the day and desirous of a drink with his friends. His coworkers attempt to cajole him to go out with them, but he needs a mental break from talking only about work and social injustice.

 

He texts Darcy, but she is responds with a bundle of sad emojis. Darcy is busy, crunching for the end of the summer semester and not able to hangout with Bucky as often as he would like. He surprised her with dinner one night, bummed around while she studied, and generally proved to be a nuisance until she banished him from her life until the miserable hell of finals ends. (By banish, she intended for him to leave for the night and text her in the morning.)

 

So he hangs with Steve more to compensate for his best friend’s absence. The more he gets to know Steve, the more he starts to appreciate the man for his personality rather than only his looks. Which means Bucky likes him A LOT.

 

They talk about many things: the news, culture, social justice, friends, their personal lives, Bucky’s job, their childhoods. But the one conspicuous thing they do not discuss is Steve’s past and current employment.

 

Intellectually, Bucky is aware of who Steve Roger’s is. Captain America, a World War II veteran, and member of the Avengers. This is abstract, however, to his interactions with the man. It is hard for Bucky to reconcile that Steve is a soldier and leader, with the man who inhales food like he may kneel over from starvation; who acts like an innocent angel but who is totally messing with Bucky (the enormous trollface); who will wear the most ridiculously ugly outfits to hide in plain sight; who runs marathons before most people’s first alarm goes off in the morning for fun. Alright, perhaps the latter is a superhero thing. 

 

Steve will discuss--and complain, if you are fluent in dry and droll --about his coworkers, but he never delves into the arena of his actual day-to-day routine in the ‘office’. (Bucky is sure Steve is not working in an office.) Despite not touching that topic, Bucky can easily read that Steve hates what he does. 

 

There are small indicators. The way his forehead wrinkles when he alludes to his job. How he speaks of his boss with a frown. Whatever team he does special assignments with--they’re pricks, Bucky is positive. And Steve comes back from work more and more tense, at least when Bucky happens to see him right after. (Bucky thinks that the ten or so times he’s met Steve after the man finished a job is indicative enough of a pattern. The pattern being: Steve is dissatisfied.)

 

Bucky finishes up with a few documents and texts Steve to confirm their dinner plans. They are usually out and about the town, rarely at each other's apartments. But Steve has yet to see The Princess Bride, which Bucky finds unacceptable. Nor any animated Pixar films, and that is the real tragedy. Movie night, they decided, and Bucky gets a six pack on the way over. 

 

He has been at Steve's apartment a total of three times and entering the unassuming but sleek building still makes his eyes want to roll. 

 

He doesn't think Steve took much time or pleasure in selecting where to live. The apartment is spacious but impersonal. And Steve isn't around much anyway nor does he seem to have an incentive to hang around his apartment. 

 

Bucky punches in a code at the door, hefting the six pack and his briefcase to one side. As the door buzzes and he enters and looks between the stairs and elevator with a sadly indecisive pause. Steve is on the third floor. Bucky doesn't like stairs. But- he is an able bodied man, and the potential embarrassment of having Steve see him as lazy prompts him to take the stairs. But he isn't happy about it. 

 

Reaching the last step with a pathetic huff, Bucky walks to Steve's door but stills at the sound of a door unlocking nearby.

 

A blonde woman, obviously Steve's neighbor, comes out. He smiles and nods, putting the six pack down and raising his hand to knock.

 

“Oh, are you a friend of Steve’s?” she asks him, locking her door and eyeing him over her shoulder.

 

Bucky tries not to let a stupid dreamy smile steal over his lips. He doubts his success. “Yeah, I am.” 

 

The blonde woman gives him an appraising once over that feels overly critical for just a curious neighbor. His mind immediately jumps to the conclusion that she is interested in Steve--because, really, who wouldn’t be? This draws his attention. He gives her his own visual analysis. 

 

Steve’s neighbor is thin and of average height, with what Darcy would call ‘dirty’ blonde hair. She is attractive, but this is not what causes Bucky’s brain to wave a red flag. What makes her stand out is the way she postures, straight and steely, like expecting an enemy combatant to come charging around the corner at any time. Even wearing hospital scrubs, she is intimidating. The fake friendly smile she attempts to throw him doesn’t dispel his impression.

 

“I’m Kate,” she says, walking two steps and sticking out a hand politely. 

 

Bucky can do nothing but return the outstretched hand with his own. 

 

“Bucky.” They shake. She has a firm grasp. There is a pause, another moment of sizing each other up and Bucky isn’t quite sure what to do.

 

Steve’s door opening interrupts. Bucky withdraws his hand and immediately gives Steve his focus with a beaming grin that he is helpless to stop. “Stevie!” he cries in greeting, stepping forward to give him a firm shoulder clasp aka a hug manly enough to avoid criticism but sufficient to get a dose of physical contact. Bucky savors those.

 

“Hey, Buck,” he replies, rescuing the six pack of beer from the floor, and moving aside to let Bucky through. “Hi Kate.”

 

She nods at Steve. “Hey neighbor, haven’t seen you in awhile. How’s it going?”

 

“Good, and yourself?” Steve replies, all politeness. Bucky stands next to Steve instead of going straight in and rather wishes they didn’t have to make small talk.

 

“Same thing, different day,” she says, waving a hand at her scrubs. “My schedule has been absolutely crazy lately.”

 

“What do you do?” Bucky asks. He is curious, and not because he wants to compare Kate to himself or anything. Or obsessively analyze her with Darcy later. He has no such intentions.

 

“I’m a nurse at GW Hospital.” Her tone is mild, face unreadable, but Bucky can’t help the impulse that she is lying. Kate, thankfully, she doesn’t prolong the conversation. “Well, duty calls. Hope you boys have fun and nice to meet you, Bucky.” His name sounds weird when she says it, and he stamps down the impulse to dislike her for no reason. That would be unfair.

 

Bucky goes inside and Steve shuts the door behind him. 

 

“She seems cool,” Bucky lies, deciding he’s going to have a bit of a fishing expedition. “Do you know her well?” 

 

Steve sits on his living room couch, putting the six pack on the coffee table, and slouching back to relax. He grabs a bottle and pops the tin lid without needing a bottle cap opener. The first is passed to Bucky, and the second Steve takes for himself. While Steve can’t get drunk, he enjoys the flavor profiles of the craft beers Bucky introduces him to. This one is a pumpkin lager, starting to appear on the shelves for the start of the fall season.

 

Steve takes a sip and answers, “Not well, no. She was living here when I moved in two years ago. Kate’s nice, I’ve been meaning to ask her to grab coffee.” The last part Steve says with reluctance.

 

Bucky tries not to spit out his beer. “You want to ask her out?”

 

“Nat has been encouraging me to date more,” Steve shrugs, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. Nat is Natasha, apparently the Avenger known as the Black Widow. Bucky can’t even picture what that conversation looked like. Steve isn’t someone who likes getting super personal with other people (Bucky obviously excluded here), especially those he works with. Steve was more likely to fling himself off a plane without a parachute than to discuss his love life with Natasha.

 

“I’m sure that went well,” Bucky says, kicking Steve playfully. “Tell her to mind her own damn business. You’re a grown ass man. With a very nice ass.” He can’t help adding the last part.

 

Steve predictably reddens. “She’s not entirely wrong,” he mumbles.

 

“Not entirely wrong about what?”

 

“That I should date more.”

 

Bucky grasps the beer bottle harder than necessary. “Maybe, but then who would I hang out with on a Friday night? Think of your poor single comrade. Don’t leave me to suffer the weekends alone.”

 

Steve flashes him a sincere smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m not really in the right state of mind to date.”

 

The words flee his mouth. “You seem fine to me...obviously, that’s a personal determination but from an entirely objective outside perspective- actually, I’m a bit subjective on the topic- but either way. Objective or subjective, you should give yourself more credit. If you don’t feel like dating, fine. But don’t avoid it because you think there’s something wrong with you. Newsflash, buddy, there isn’t. At least not much more than the rest of us.” The tagline on his tombstone should be: the words, finally stopped. 

 

For some reason, this touches a nerve. Bucky can see the tension fuse in Steve’s shoulders and how he also hunches into himself. “I don’t think many people fought in a World War and then were frozen for seventy years and woke up to all their friends and family dead,” Steve snaps.

 

Open mouth, insert all the feet. Bucky feels awful for bringing this up, throat tightening. The last thing he wants to do is upset Steve. “Whoa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

 

Steve stands, moves into the kitchen area, his back to Bucky. “No, it’s fine,” he says, “I’m sorry for lashing out.” But his tone is still raw and he isn’t looking at Bucky.

 

“That wasn’t rude of you, it was invasive of me. I need to mind my own fucking business clearly.” Bucky normally would make the obvious joke (fucking business har har) but feels on shaky ground now, and isn’t sure if he should hang around at all, let alone make light of the situation. “Maybe I should go?...”

 

“No!” Steve says, still not turning. 

 

Bucky stands, puzzled and uncertain of the right thing to do here. Him and Steve haven’t ever fought, their friendship being too fresh. But it isn’t so new any longer. And he cares about Steve and doesn’t want to leave him if he wants a listening ear. Or maybe Steve wants space and is just being polite? Should he stay or should he go?

 

Moving toward Steve, who hunched over the kitchen island, hands on the marble and taking deep breaths, Bucky rests a hand on the other man’s back. “Talk to me. What’s going on.”

 

“Nothing,” Steve mumbles in-between his deep breathing, a move that looks like the kind of thing a therapist would advise to prevent a panic attack. Thinking that Steve might being about to have a panic attack...makes Bucky feel like he will have a sympathy panic attack. Is that a thing? LIke if you see someone crying and you start crying, but with panic attacks. Or someone gets a shot, and you feel a twinge on your own arm? Yes, no, only him?

 

Luckily for Bucky, who is on the precipice of freaking out and becoming even more useless than he currently is, Steve gets his emotions under control and leans back into the hand that has magically turned into his arm around Steve’s waist. 

 

“This isn’t nothing,” Bucky whispers, because his mouth is close to Steve’s ear. They are now in more of a side hug.

 

Steve turns his head and buries his face in Bucky’s hair. (Bucky is thankful he showered that morning so he can reasonably hope that he smells pleasant, like his lavender shampoo.) “Can we...not?” 

 

“Not what?” Bucky asks dumbly, having lost his train of thought and sense of what is happening because Steve has his face on Bucky. He can feel Steve’s breath on his neck. 

 

Bucky’s body is about three seconds from reacting in a way that will cause Steve to have a crisis of a different sort.

 

“Not talk about this,” Steve says, lifting his head and (nooooo! But probably good) stepping away.

 

Without the distraction of Steve’s warm breath tickling his neck and body heat pressing closer, Bucky can think with (more) coherence. He isn’t sure what the right thing to do is but he’s pretty damn certain that suppressing your feelings is bad. “I’m not sure we should forget about what you just said. You’re worrying me. I know it’s not my business, but I feel like as your, um, friend, I hope, you know, you can confide in me. Or that you have someone to talk to about...the whole waking up in the future thing.”

 

Steve lets out a harsh laugh. “I have plenty of people to talk about the ‘whole waking up in the future thing.’ First thing SHIELD did was have more therapists than I’ve ever met get together in one room and make me talk about my feelings. I really don’t want to do it with you too.” 

 

Bucky cringes, taking a step back, physically this time as well as emotionally. He gets it. Steve is entitled to bifurcate his life, and exclude Bucky from knowing him on a deeper level. It’s fine. “Okay, great, good, I’m glad to hear that you have that support. Why don’t we turn on the movie and pretend I never said anything? Wipe the slate twenty minutes and start over.”

 

Steve looks so relieved that Bucky decides to push his own disappointment away. He turns on the movie, but has a hard time getting invested in Buttercup and Westley’s adventurous romance. 

 

Instead, his thoughts whirl in circles about what just happened. Steve is upset about something. And he doesn’t trust Bucky with whatever the problem is. Which is fine. It’s fine. It’s not like he’s in love with Steve or anything. Not like his feelings are hurt. Steve has every right to not share what’s bothering him and Bucky should respect--

 

Wait.

 

In love?

 

That has nothing to do with this.

 

Why would Bucky be thinking about being in love with Steve?

 

No, no, no.

 

Mayday, mayday!

 

He sits frozen on the couch, the terrible and horrible realization washing over him. 

 

Bucky had gone and fallen in love with Steve.

 

The words play like a mantra in his mind and he tries not to outwardly show how he is completely flipping out. Steve, too, looks like he isn’t paying the movie as much attention as he normally would. So when the movie ends, Bucky babbles excuses with the words ‘tired sleepy home’ in there somewhere, and Steve nods without argument.

 

Like the functional adult he is, Bucky flees the apartment.


	8. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt to get over Steve, Bucky goes on a date.

Bucky goes straight to Darcy’s apartment.

 

“Thirty five text messages of vague allusions to whatever disaster your life is, a little excessive,” she tells him when he arrives in a complete panic. “But come in, come to mama.”

 

“Never say that to me again,” he scowls, but obeys and goes into the apartment looking rather like a kicked puppy. So many puppies get kicked with him around, he thinks darkly.

 

He observes his bestie, a bit concerned. Darcy’s eyes are bloodshot and the bags under her eyes are giving her raccoonish look. She is dressed in a very long t-shirt that goes to her knees, and he suspects based on smell and cleanliness of the shirt that it’s been a few days since she changed or showered. “Stop judging me,” she pinches him, “I told you I’ve been busy and stressed. You’re lucky I just finished my paper and have time to _kvetch_ with you.”

 

“I’m judging you because now that I have a visual, I’m worried! You sent me seven sad emojis in varying colors. You didn’t say you looked like…” he searches for an appropriate description, “a member of the Addams family. A Walking Dead wannabe. Actually, more like Edward Cullen on a good day. Oh, and I’m not _kvetching_ , I have real problems.” The several additional pinches are totally worth it. He rubs his arm and glares. (But the pain is nothing compared to the one in his heart. And wow, he is so pathetic.)

 

Bucky goes straight for her couch, arm clutched, and grabs a quilt. He sheds his work clothes until he is only in his undershirt and boxers. “Make yourself at home,” she says sarcastically, but joins him to cuddle in true platonic comfort. She sinks into his side, her couch having that perfect dip in the middle. “I’m so tired,” she admits.

 

“I’m so fucked,” he says.

 

She rises. “Hold that thought,” and goes to the cupboard where she keeps her wine. Not the good stuff, but the ‘get the job done’ stuff. She returns with an opened bottle of Malbec and one large glass for them to share. She pours the wine, takes a big sip, and passes him the glass. “Okay, I’m ready.”

 

He is going to present the situation logically and calmly.

 

Rationally explain the problem to her and maintain equilibrium.

 

“I’m in love with Steve!” he wails.

 

Well, at least it isn’t a scream of despair.

 

Darcy steals the glass back and gulps. “Buck.”

 

He waves a magnanimous hand, gloomy expression fixed. “You can say it. I deserve it.”

 

She takes a hand and pets his hair gingerly, with a pitying look in her truly scary bloodshot eyes. “I told you so,” she sighs, clearly taking no joy in the statement. “And that didn’t even feel good to say. I’m sorry. That sucks. Are you sure he’s only into the v-jay jam?”

 

“Yep, he made it clear he wants to bone his hot female neighbor.” Bucky wants the twisting in his chest at those words to stop.

 

“But is he only into _vaginas_?” Darcy persists.

 

This question had never occurred to Bucky. “He’s only talked about women when the topic comes up, and he knows I’m gay and never said anything. So yeah, probably is. I’m doomed to tragic love.”

 

“I’m pretty sure most of America shares your tragic love of Captain America.”

 

“I can’t handle teasing right now,” he snaps, pouting.

 

Darcy pokes him. “Look, you’ve only known him a few months. Just put some distance between him and you. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

 

“It’s going to be _really_ hard.” Bucky increases the intensity of sullenness. He doesn’t want to put any distance between him and Steve. He can be friends. He can so do the friendship schtick, and bury the rest of his feelings.

 

He says this to Darcy, who snorts in disbelief. Rude. “I’m telling you, James Buchanan Barnes, do not go down this path. It’s only going to lead to heartache and misery for both of you.”

 

Maybe if Bucky starts dating again, that would help him to overcome his feelings.

 

“That, plus distance,” Darcy says firmly. “I’ll reactivate my okcupid profile, and stop texting Steve everyday,” he bargains.

 

She shakes her head, grasps his face with a hand on each cheek. “Do. Not. Do. This. I’m super stressed out right now and I don’t want to deal with the emotional fallout of your foreseeably bad choices!”

 

Bucky stares into her red, crazy eyes. “How about I make you some tea?” he suggests gently.

 

She releases his face, but still looks shifty. “I suppose. I think I still have that mint green from teavana.”

 

“That is truly a repulsive combination. I refuse to let you do that to your body.” But he gets up and fetches the accoutrements for her anyway, wordlessly taking the wine and replacing it with tea.

 

She sighs in contentment and Bucky decides to table his woes and figure out what's going on in Darcyland. “Oh, the usual,” she says after he inquires with a pointed stare. “It's just…”

 

When she doesn’t finish her sentence, he attempts to guess. “School? Work? Scientist man you’re tight lipped about?”

 

She gives him a narrow look. “I already told you that there’s nothing going on with scientist. I was completely delusional to think we were flirting. He called me ‘Claire’ today.”

 

Bucky can’t help the widening of his eyes. “No,” he breathes.

 

“Yep,” she pops the p, wincing. “I know.”

 

“That’s awful,” he says, truly trying for sympathetic and compassion for his poor friend’s life, but a small bubble of laughter escapes.

 

Darcy doesn’t react with any pinching violence but she does give him a resigned look. “Yeah, laugh it up.”

 

Bucky has a soul, so he swallows down the rest of his mirth and empathizes as best he can. “It could be worse — you could be in love with someone who doesn’t even like your gender. And is generally unattainable.”

 

“Dear lord, you are so self-absorbed,” she complains, “me, me, me.”

 

“Look on the bright side,” Bucky feigns deafness like a pro, “you’re practically done with the summer semester. So no more school for a few weeks.”

 

“Yeah,” she replies, “woohoo.”

 

“You could quit your job then and move in with me and bum around all day as my kept-woman,” he suggests.

 

“Because you can support me and my lavish lifestyle demands on a public defender salary?” she jabs.

 

“Honey, no one thinks poptarts and wooly scarves are lavish,” he says. “Also, I make a decent salary, thanks!”

 

“We make the same, and I only work part-time.”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you sell out to private companies,” he sullenly replies.

 

“I'm serving my country!” she says with mock indignation.

 

The truth is: Darcy feels apathetic about her job, whatever the specifics were. Because of what happened during her internship with Dr. Foster in New Mexico, Darcy has a surprisingly high clearance. Not that she discusses that with Bucky. No, she would never — do —that — !

 

He thinks that when she gets her Masters degree, she’s gonna say sayonara to her current job. Which will likely be for the best. (He wishes Steve would do the same.) “We are going to grow old and decrepit together, and share a room at the same nursing home, complaining about the pudding and making eyes at the same cute nurse,” Bucky says, depressed.

 

Darcy sighs. “You’re such an optimist. Growing old? Ha. At this rate, I’ll be happy to reach 40.”

 

“Which is just around the corner…”

 

“Take that back!”

 

“I’m not taking back the truth.”

 

“Then I’m taking back my entire couch,” and she shoves him off with a laugh, starting a scuffle that Bucky is doomed to come out the worse of.

 

Bucky eventually apologizes, tells Darcy he’d card her at an R-rated movie, and begs for the quilt back.

 

Well, there are worse things than unrequited love when you have a best friend to commiserate with.

 

…

…

…

 

The other part of the encounter with Steve, the awkward moment and emotional shutdown, Bucky keeps silent.

 

He doesn't want to blab Steve's business to anyone, even Darcy.

 

As a lawyer, he is practiced in keeping important, juicy things to himself.

 

Part of what he enjoys about being a public defender is that he gets trusted with intimate and sensitive information that he must keep privileged. He tries to apply the same theory here. He does wish Steve had trusted him to be a person he confided in. But the reality is he didn't, and so Bucky has to deal.

 

Despite his vows to his best friend, he continues to text with Steve daily.

 

...That would be hard to stop, okay?

 

He does compromise by reactivating his OkCupid dating profile, a dating site and app he uses when he wants to find a tangible connection. (Versus Grindr or Tinder, where he is only looking for a hookup.)

 

Many men message him. Few display anything worth following up with. One guy, however, doesn't appear to be terrible. He's an architect, cute but not overwhelmingly hot (which Bucky finds refreshing after all the pining he is doing over a man with the literal body of a Greek god), and his profile has just enough sarcastic edge to make Bucky think they might get along.

 

 **Message him!** Darcy demands via text.

 

_I'm thinking about it._

 

**Think with the keyboard. Think 'yes, when?’**

 

 _Maybe_.

 

**Yes.**

 

 _FINE_. _But you have to be available if I need a emergency call._

 

**Duh, boy, duh.** **This will help, I promise.**

 

…

…

…

 

Bucky agrees to drinks after work on Friday.

 

He promptly receives this adorable and sexy text from Steve: I'm listening to The Killers and about to watch 24. Come over with beer? (Steve is oddly obsessed with Jack Bauer. It’s frankly the cutest thing Bucky has ever seen.)

 

Bucky knows a step back is necessary, but damn does Steve make that hard to want to do. All Bucky wants is to cancel his date and go hangout with one of his favorite humans. Who cares if Steve doesn't feel the same way and never will? It's enough to be in his presence. It's enough to have his undivided attention, even if it's only platonically. But a voice that has a suspicious resemblance to Darcy says no, a date with someone available is the emotionally healthy thing to do. Be a functional and mature adult man. Do the right thing here.

 

_Raincheck? I'm about to go out on a date. Send positive vibes my way, I'm rusty._

 

The response is gratifyingly immediate. (Steve’s coworkers who don’t know him that well seem to mock Steve for being tech ignorant, but he's actually embraced technology quite well.)

 

Oh. With who? 

 

_Just some guy._

 

From work? 

 

_Noooo Steve, the interwebs._

 

Oh, okay. You’re going to miss Day 3, 7-8pm. 

 

_There’s this thing called wikipedia._

 

Not the same as watching it!! Heathen. 

 

_I’m not as invested with watching *all* the episodes in chronological order, once a week, like someone whose name rhymes with Leave Logers._

 

Whatever, Sucky Farnes. 

 

Bucky bursts into peals of laughter. He totally takes credit for teaching Steve the value of a good ‘whatever’ and now the student usurps the teacher. (The sass and smartassery is all Leave Logers.)

 

They text some more about their respective days, Steve asks for the details of Bucky’s date, but doesn’t sound anything other than politely inquisitive (if he were to judge tone over text, which he totally does all the time). 

 

Bucky changes at work into his date outfit, his classic skinny jeans and a tight aquamarine T-shirt that brings out his own pretty blues. He pairs the look with his really expensive [leather jacket](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/7137bzYgyUL._UX385_.jpg) with a zipper edgily placed slightly to the right.

 

Architect guy suggests the bar. A trendy and swanky cocktail lounge, playing host to many of DC’s young professionals. It is, of course, in Dupont Circle. But Bucky doesn’t see a reason to judge this either way, especially since when he Yelps the location ahead of time, there are mostly fine reviews and the place has a rooftop deck. 

 

(One date, a few years back when Bucky was still young and dumb, a guy had picked what Bucky thought was a cute-sounding bar. Nope. _Leather & Love_ catered particularly to gay men with kinks to explore. Which, had Bucky been anticipating that, he may have been intrigued and interested. But when you don’t give notice to someone you’re about to take them to a kinky sex party bar...and it's a first date...well, that ends a date pretty fast. Because of that, he always checks the place ahead of time if he isn’t the one selecting the date location.)

 

Bucky meets Paul-the-Architect at the front entrance of the cocktail lounge. Their initial moments of interactions are friendly, and Paul-the-Architect is exactly as his profile described. 

 

Upon entering the lounge, after the bouncer checks to make sure they are up to dress code, they go up to the rooftop deck to grab a table.

 

The conversation is...

 

“My job is more than that, it's my passion. I always knew I wanted to combine design and building. I love the artistry and engineering,” he says, sipping his watermelon martini. “You're a lawyer?”

 

“Yeah, I'm a public defender.”

 

“How noble! I really think we do a disservice to the poor in this country and it's great to see passionate people helping them. I was listening to NPR this morning about bail reform —"

 

...fine.

 

This is what dating is like: small talk that is slightly forced and putting your best face forward. Bucky tries to remember that normal men don’t look like the template for a Greek God sculpture. If Bucky wants to find someone to love, to have a real life with and equal partner, he needs to put aside his unrealistic expectations and invest emotionally in something achievable.

 

The date is about to hit the hour mark, and Bucky hasn’t texted Darcy for any emergency calls of escape. A positive sign. The deck is becoming full as time passes. People milling around, sharing drinks with friends, or having one alone. He notices several attractive men at the bar, and then chastises himself for looking when he’s having a perfectly respectable time.

 

Paul-the-Architect is in the middle of a story about growing up in California and how he decided to move to the east coast. Bucky is trying really hard not to be nitpicky the subtle name dropping his date is doing, and how he spits a little when he talks, so Bucky has to discreetly lean back. Nodding at the appropriate times, Bucky has luckily perfected the skill of half-listening, half-watching, and his eyes scan the crowd, lackadaisical. 

 

He pauses on a sight at the bar. Something stands out as not like the other things in the room.

 

He narrows his eyes.

 

No _way_.

 

Bucky raises his cocktail to his lips, drains the contents of the glass. He tunes back into a tale about the shenanigans of the Stanford lacrosse team and waits for Paul-the-Architect to take a breath. Then politely says, “I’m going to grab another. What would you like?”

 

“Oh, I’ll take another mojito.” Paul-the-Architect smiles, revealing a gap-toothed smile that could be endearing, if Bucky were in a place to be endeared. 

 

Instead, he is laser focused on getting to the bar. “Okay, be right back.” Bucky stands and moves into the crowd, not in a direct line, but roundabout and approaches the bar from the side, so he has a good view of the people sitting on the bar stools.

 

There are six people, two couples and two individuals. Of the two individuals, one is a woman on her phone, clearly waiting for someone. The other is a tall, blond man, wearing a hideous but cleancut green and yellow plaid shirt with pressed mauve slacks, and a beanie.

 

It’s the beanie that gives him away. Oh, and _his entire body and face_.

 

Why the hell is Steve trying to go incognito at the same bar that Bucky is having his date at? 

 

What is Steve doing there?

 

Bucky doesn’t know how to feel but he decisively acts.

  
  


Returning to the table where his date is, without drinks, he holds his phone up in explanation, “Something came up with work. I hate to leave so early, but how about a raincheck?”

 

Paul-the-Architect is appropriately disappointed but nice about him having to leave the early prematurely. They agree to text and if Paul-the-Architect tries to lean in for a kiss, Bucky is facing the exit, so he surely doesn’t dodge on purpose.

 

He starts for the metro, and isn’t surprised in the least when he gains a shadow about ten feet behind him. He turns down an alleyway and waits.

 

“I know you’re there, Steve,” he says at a normal, conversational volume. The alleyway is as tidy as they come, with one recycling dumpster stationed in the corner, and a dim light shining overhead. Thus, Bucky doesn’t feel repulsive by leaning against the wall.

 

Steve slowly turns the corner into the alley looking abashed, like a puppy that got caught pissing on the carpet. Wait, is Bucky the carpet? No, no. That makes Steve seem motivated by possessiveness, marking his territory, awash in jealousy. Though Bucky is having a difficult time coming up with any other explanation for his friend’s behavior. (Is it so bad that he hopes…)

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, gazing at the ground, sheepish and still in full  _ disguise _ . “Fancy running into you?”

 

“Fancy seeing you at the same bar as my date,” Bucky shoots back. 

 

Steve holds up both hands. “There’s a good explanation for that.”

 

Bucky raises both eyebrows.

 

“Really good,” Steve promises.

 

Bucky waits.

 

“You’ll appreciate what I have to say.” Steve fidgets under Bucky’s increasingly chilling gaze, a highly valuable skill used in cross examination. Silence and staring is its own power. “Okay, fine, I was curious.”

 

“You were curious?” Bucky echoes, incredulous. “About what exactly? Gay dating?”

 

“No! No, that’s—not—no! I... wanted to make sure you had a good time.”

 

“Oh, so you spied on me to preserve my honor.” The sarcasm dripping off that statement was practically visible.

 

Steve steps closer to where Bucky is perched against the brick wall. “I think I’m about ten years too late for that.”

 

“Ten years?” Bucky gets derailed in momentary outrage. “Try  _ twelve _ , thanks to Johnny Watkins. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that the science geeks are anything less than completely dedicated to their tasks.”

 

Steve snorts, crossing his arms in a way that is a tempting distraction to Bucky’s irritation. 

 

“I’m not letting your sass hide the fact that you just followed me on a date, and I won’t buy that it’s a coincidence of any sort, given, um, your outfit and the fact that I told you where I’d be and you never said, 'oh odd, me too!' ” Bucky says and allows that to fill the space between them. Space that is somehow rapidly become smaller and smaller. Steve is close enough to touch.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve offers, sounding anything but.

 

“No you’re not,” Bucky replies, taking his own turn to analyze the other man intently. “And I’m confused about why.”

 

“I like your jacket,” Steve says, apropos of nothing. Steps closer.

 

Bucky doesn’t move. “Okay…” An animal instinct takes over, sensing what is about to happen. His heart starts to beat faster, face flushing lightly in the cool breeze.

 

“I like the things you say.” 

 

What the hell is happening? Steve takes another step closer. Now they are only a few inches apart and Bucky feels the steady flow of hot breath touching him, is frozen.

 

Steve continues softly, eyes staring into Bucky’s and holding. “I like how you make me feel.”

 

Oh god, was this some kind of reverse _10 Things I Hate About You_? Would Bucky be forced to stand motionless as Steve recited a list of things he liked about Bucky and then revealed that he actually didn't like him _like that_ at all? That didn't quite add up in Bucky's own mind, but the blood is rushing away from his brain, making it hard to understand what's going on.  ( Or maybe just hard.)

 

Bucky takes a deep breath in, about to launch into what promises to be an incredibly babble filled clusterfuck, but Steve sees this and shocks Bucky back into inaction by saying simply, “I like you."

 

Then, Steve kisses him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating goes up next chapter! Get ready folks! The boys are moving forward, but we aren't quite done yet.


End file.
